The Sower of the Wind
by Katty Blake
Summary: There's always a new danger out there. But this time Dean and Sam are up against a foe unlike anything they've ever fought. And maybe that's it, this is the way the world ends — not with a bang but a whimper.  post-6x22
1. Part 1 Know Thy Enemy

_A/N: This is my first fic in English, so I'd appreciate all the comments – they will help me improve my writing and will tell me what I'm doing wrong. I'd also like to thank my wonderful beta, __**sgmajorshipper**__ livejournal, whose amazing skills and wise words made this fic readable._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural nor did I come up with the title, nothing is mine apart from the plot._

**The Sower of the Wind**

Part 1. Know Thy Enemy

For a moment, time in Crowley's secret torture lab seems to stop. No one breathes, no one blinks — as if blinking might cause your death — no one moves. Castiel's words hang in the air; pollute it with threats and dark promises. Slowly, oh so slowly, this places catches up with the rest of the universe — where five minutes have already passed — and Sam and Bobby look at Dean in unison, waiting for a response. Dean only grits his teeth and continues to stare at the unwelcome stranger wearing his best friend's face.

"No," says Dean Winchester loudly.

Sam flinches behind him while Bobby quickly looks around, judging their ability to run, hide or defend themselves. Frankly, none are an option; not here and certainly not with _this_ in the room.

"No," repeats Dean for no purpose, "we won't." He straightens himself and waits for the reaction of a self-proclaimed god. The one he gets is not the one he was expecting, though. Castiel — because he can't call this being 'Cas' anymore, he can't and he most certainly won't — cocks his head to the side in an all-too-familiar tilt and studies Dean for a moment. He doesn't sigh and is expression is unreadable, but he doesn't kill him and Dean has a hard time not counting that as a victory of sorts.

"I understand," Castiel says and takes a step closer towards Dean. Dean takes a step back before he even realizes what he's doing — but Castiel doesn't seem offended by that, he doesn't seem to notice the fact that Dean practically stinks of pure terror. "You are a man of senses and you desire to be shown proof before you accept anything." Castiel smiles and Dean shudders at the sight. "I will give you proof, Dean. I will also give you time to think about your decision. You must remember that I'm not like the other God; I will not sit back when so much needs to be done. I will show you that I mean no harm."

Castiel doesn't spare a glance on Sam or Bobby; one moment he's here, standing at the border of Dean's personal space and the next — Dean barely managed to blink — he's gone, no rustle of feathers, no goodbye.

Dean relaxes slightly and turns around to look at Sam. His brother appears… fine, alive and sane, definitely not comatose or mad. If the circumstances were different, Dean would have leapt to his brother's side and hugged him already. Broken Wall is not exactly a resurrection, but surviving it deserves the celebration too.

Instead he clears his throat and says what probably is on everyone's mind.

"What the hell just happened?"

Sam looks helplessly at the angel blade that _didn't fucking work_ (Dean doesn't know whether he's disappointed or relieved) and gives a little shrug. Dean suddenly realizes that Sam wasn't there when Cas exploded a terrified and begging Raphael and Dean tried to bullshit his way out using a so far foolproof family card. Too little, too late and doesn't he want to kick himself, hard.

Bobby swears somewhere behind him and Dean hears him move. He comes up to one of the tables, collects Crowley's notes and stuffs them inside one of those enormous pockets of his.

"Should get goin', boys," Bobby suggests and only a tremor to his voices betrays his discomfort, probably mixed with residual anger and a lot of fear. Dean silently agrees and nods at Sam. They leave Crowley's lab and only as he's climbing the stairs, it occurs to Dean that his car is not exactly in the ready-to-drive state. He wonders briefly how Sam got there and hopes that he just borrowed one of Bobby's ugly old cars, one that will fit three grown men.

He also wonders what the hell he'll do with the Impala.

"We'll get her working, Dean," promises Sam quietly as they pass Dean's car. Dean only nods in silence.

The ride back to Bobby's is pretty high on Dean's list of Worst Rides Ever. The atmosphere in the car is so thick you could cut it with a fucking machete and you could also easily trip on all the tension and unspoken thoughts. Bobby is still pissed about Ellie Visyak's death and only the fact that she wasn't exactly human is making things a little better, Dean suspects. Sam's face is expressionless, but he's gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white — whatever's going on in this kid's mind has nothing to do with unicorns and rainbows and naked chicks. And Dean… Dean has a hard time wrapping his head around everything that has happened. For the last few hours, days even, he's been riding high on adrenaline and alcohol and now both are gone from his system and he feels _drained_. Hollow, dead inside.

At some point of their journey he must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up to Sam shaking his shoulder and telling they're home. Bobby's already out of the car when Dean rubs his eyes and tries to get a disturbing image of bloodied hands that suddenly appeared in his mind. Dean gets out and shuts the door behind him. Sam, though, is still plastered to the driver's seat.

"Sammy?"

"We need booze, Dean," explains Sam grimly, looking straight ahead and not at Dean, still clutching to the steering wheel as if it was a lifeline. "Lots of booze, I think. We need to talk about it. So, yeah, booze."

He starts the engine and disappears into the darkness. Dean watches him until he turns around the corner, half expecting his brother to suddenly drive into a wall or something. Nothing happens, however, and Dean has no reason to stay outside. He has to man up and get inside, to an angry Bobby and a pile of shitty perspectives as high as the tower of Babel.

"Where's your brother?" asks Bobby the moment Dean steps inside his house. He's already locked behind his desk, buried in some obscure, dusty book. He has four another on his left and three on his right, with a notebook and a pen lying in front of him on the desk. It's a picture Dean knows by heart, he's seen Bobby in the exact same position millions of times except _he hasn't_, because this is a situation they've never found themselves before.

"Supply run." Dean throws himself on the couch, folds his arms over his chest and stares at the ceiling. He never noticed how interesting patterns the mould on it has created. Oh, this one looks like a car while the one on the left resembles a horse…

"Good." Dean doesn't bother to look at Bobby, not when his voice is so muffled that it can only come from behind a book. "We'll need all the help we can get." Bobby mumbles something under his nose.

"What?"

"I said that you'd need it especially."

Dean bolts upright. He frowns and tries to think of a reason why this upcoming conversation might be difficult for him. Discarding the obvious, he's got _nothing_. Because — profound bond or whatever aside — Cas has been a friend to all three of them and it's not like Dean's the only one with issues now, right? Right.

"Bobby, not that I don't appreciate the concern," Dean says, fake humor coating every word and tasting bitter on his tongue, "but I'm a big boy, I can handle the talk. I'd be more worried about Sam; the girl will get drunk on liquor before we even get to the point."

"I don't mean the talk, idjit," snaps Bobby and Dean gets chills. He doesn't like the coldness of Bobby's voice or the phantom snakes behind his words. "I meant finding a way to kill this thing."

"Kill?" echoes Dean. The thought is incredulous and feels _wrong_. Dean stares at Bobby — if it were a comic book, his jaw would have dropped to the ground by now — and tries to process the information given to him. But the synapses just won't work properly and Dean ends up shaking his head.

That's the moment Sam chooses to come back with several big bottles. He doesn't take off his jacket; he puts the bottles on the ground and goes to the kitchen to fetch three glasses. He fills them generously with whiskey, hands them out and awkwardly sits on the couch beside Dean.

"So what's the plan?" he asks and takes a sip. Bobby is tracing the edge of his glass with his index finger and takes his time before he comes up with a reply.

"We go through every book I have, phone every damn hunter I know and find a way to kill it." Bobby downs his whiskey in one go and dries his mouth with a sleeve. "The usual drill."

"The usual—" starts Dean, then shakes his head and looks to Sam for support. "Sammy, you can't _seriously_ be on board with that!"

"Sure I can," is Sam's answer, a touch slurred because of the drink he hasn't swallowed yet. "What I don't understand is, why aren't you?"

Dean doesn't have an answer to that. At first he wants to say 'it's Cas, we can't just kill him', but suddenly the picture of Sam stabbing Cas in the back — and wasn't it a déjà vu for a moment, Cas being stabbed the same way Sam was over four years ago — comes to mind and he has to rectify his opinion. They already tried killing him, so yeah, nothing new here. 'Cas is our friend' is not an option either, because as far as he can tell, Cas is definitely not on a friendly basis with them at the moment. 'Cas is our family' would be closest to the truth and so _untrue_ at the same time that Dean simply cannot force those words out. And really, Cas isn't even _Cas _now, so maybe Bobby is right and Sam is right, and Dean is acting weird.

"He hasn't done anything yet," Dean finds himself saying instead and he should start paying attention to his mouth or at least he should start thinking first and acting later. Bobby frowns and Sam looks at him as if he grew an extra head or something and that is not cool.

"Besides proclaiming himself god and telling us we can either worship him or die? Yeah, sure, he's all innocent."

"Not what I meant," snarls Dean. "So what, we gonna condemn one of us for pulling a shit we didn't like? Maybe we should have done that after you released Lucifer too, Sam?"

Sam looks like a kicked puppy before a mask of indifference settles on his face. Dean regrets lashing out the moment he sees the everlasting guilt in his brother's eyes, but that's it, he already said it and there's no taking it back. And it's not like Dean isn't right. He is and it's kind of douchey of them to act like wrong choices never happened to them. They happened plenty and for all they know, Cas learnt how to make them from them.

Bobby narrows his eyes suspiciously, but doesn't comment. Dean rubs the back of his head vigorously.

"Maybe we should just mind our business for a while? See what's gonna happen?"

"Seriously, Dean, listen to yourself! Were you even in there with Cas? I wasn't from the beginning and I can clearly see how fucked up everything is." Sam gives him a disbelieving look that somehow doesn't make Dean question his thoughts and words. "It's a nice role reversal we've got going, but usually it's you with the 'kill 'em all' attitude. It's like you're not yourself."

Dean lowers his head and closes his eyes. There's a comforting blackness before he sees the bloodied hands again and do they look familiar. Dean is suddenly overcome with a sheer, bone-deep despair. He whimpers and presses a hand to his forehead. His head throbs like it's ready to explode.

"Get 'im in a sitting position," he hears Bobby order somewhere in the peripheral of his consciousness. Soon he finds himself being manhandled by Sam, forced to sit straight and open his mouth. Bobby pours something sticky and hot into his mouth, it trickles into his throat, burning it on its way. Sam closes his mouth and makes sure it stays shut. Dean has no choice but to swallow.

Whatever it is that Bobby gave him goes straight to Dean's head. It soothes the killer of a headache, burns away the memory of bloodied hands (that aren't his own, he's fairly sure of that) and subsequently knocks him out.

A quiet "please" is the last thing Dean remembers.

Dean groans in pain as a stray ray of sunshine decides to metaphorically stab him in the eye. He opens one eye to try out his ability to function and decides that it's far beyond his skill set right now. Everything hurts, starting with his head — and he's sure he didn't drink _that_ much last night — he has a weird taste in his mouth, the kind you might get after licking old socks (not that he has experience in licking old socks), and he doesn't remember a thing about last night, apart from crashing on Bobby's couch after… Oh. Dean's eyes snap open and yes, it was a bad idea, he thinks as the sunlight momentarily blinds him and makes him dizzy. He's pretty sure he moaned and not in that nice, pornographic way.

"Easy, man." The squeak of an old couch indicates that Sam decided to torture the poor piece of furniture and sat down next to Dean. His brother puts a comforting, albeit gigantic hand — it's not that hand, Dean thinks suddenly and for no reason — on his shoulder and squeezes. A heartbeat later a mug full of fresh coffee is being thrust into Dean's hands. Dean articulates a strange sound that's supposed to be a thank you to Sam and takes a mouthful. Not one of his brightest ideas either, but at least the caffeine is helping with his head and blurred vision.

'What happened" is the phrase Dean is aiming for, although it comes more like 'whaaehen'. Sam seems to get him anyway, amazing college boy.

"You were possessed," explains his brother and it results in Dean choking on hot coffee. Sam pats his back with so much force that Dean drops the mug. Bobby will kill them, this time for sure. "So okay, maybe 'possessed' isn't the right term," continues Sam, both with talking and patting Dean, damn that kid, "but it pretty much covers the outcome."

"Possessed only not?" Dean enquires to make sure he heard right.

"Bobby says it was more like a… like a mind control."

"Mind control." Dean tries not to sound dubious or overly amused and he thinks that he succeeded when Sam gives him a warning look accompanied by a first-class bitchface. "Like in little-green-men mind control?"

"They're actually grey, Dean, watch your sci-fi." Sam sighs and stops patting him, finally. "But yeah, something like that. It was weird, man. You were you, but in a very non-you way."

Dean doesn't know what Sam means, but nods anyway. It occurs to him that his brother and Bobby probably spent the night worrying about him while it was Sam who should have been observed — after all he's the one who recently got back all his memories of an extended stay in Hell. The priority should be checking on Sam, because something might happen to him when they least expect it.

"I'm fine, Dean," assures Sam, somehow sensing what his brother's been thinking about. "Even better now that I don't have to worry about destroying that Wall. And I wanted those memories back; they're a part of me. I felt… incomplete without them."

"It might drive you crazy," Dean points out and Sam laughs at that.

"If it was going to drive me crazy, it already would have," he jokes with a mischievous glint in his eyes that has nothing to do with madness and everything with a deeply rooted desire to mock his older brother's concern and over-protectiveness. And then it's gone, like it was never there and the serious side of Sam makes a reappearance. "Of course we don't know what will happen. I suspect some headaches and delayed guilt, but I'm more worried about you."

"Me? Please, Sam," says Dean, waving a hand dismissively. "I've only been made talk nonsense by little gree— _grey _men. Hardly something that falls into our category of a worrisome incident."

Sam is silent for a moment. He's clearly thinking of a easy way of saying something hurtful or hard or _both_ and Dean braces himself for the blow. But it still catches him breathless.

"Bobby thinks it has something to do with Cas," murmurs Sam eventually, obviously deciding that simplicity wins with subtlety.

"Why?" asks Dean in a voice that should sound so high-pitched. Sam shrugs his shoulders, but avoids Dean's eyes. That gets Dean suspicious.

"A hunch maybe." Sam rolls his eyes when Dean elbows him in the side, trying to get him to talk. "Dean, he really had some kind of a 'eureka!' moment. He was sitting at his desk and then he was in the kitchen, making this crazy ass solution that was stinking like rotten eggs. We forced you to drink it and you passed out. Like a girl," Sam adds as an afterthought, with a wicked grin back on his face.

"Bitch."

Sam laughs at that, honest to God _laughs_ before replying "Jerk" with so much affection that it physically hurts. And then it hurts even more when Dean realizes just how long they didn't tease each other that way. They settle for a comfortable silence for few minutes before Dean remembers something.

"Why did you say 'please'?"

"What?"

"Yesterday," explains Dean, "before I passed out under the influence of Bobby's kitchen mojo, why did you say 'please'?"

"I didn't," denies Sam and his confusion is too real to be faked. "I said a lot of sappy things — which I'm glad you don't remember — but I never pleaded."

"Huh."

Sam watches him with a concerned look and Dean once again stills in appreciation of the impact Sam's soul has on him. That of course leads to him thinking about the impact all the Purgatory souls have on Cas and that doesn't make him warm and fuzzy anymore. He rubs his face tiredly.

"What did we decide to do?" he asks and Sam immediately knows what his brother is asking about.

"Nothing," answers Sam too quickly for Dean's liking. But it's okay, whatever Sam's trying to hide is connected to Dean's little adventure from last night and yep, he can't really blame Sam for trying to be gentle and omit the topic. He tried to do the exact same thing after Sam got re-souled, after all. "After much consideration we decided to wait and see. It's not like we have much on him, right?" Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam stutters. "I mean… he threatened to kill us, but then he let us go so maybe it was just… stress?" finishes Sam so tightly that it's obvious he doesn't believe a word he's saying.

Dean's fine with that, for the time being.

"So what, we're gonna sit on our asses and wait for a sign or something?"

"Hell no, you idjit."

Bobby comes into the living room with a newspaper folded and tucked under right arm and a glass of scotch in his left hand. It strikes Dean that he looks even more rumpled and tired than Sam, like he slept even less. It wouldn't be unlike Bobby to worry about both of them, to send Sam to bed and to keep vigil by Dean's side on his own. Dean shakes his head. The lengths this man was ready to go for them, it never ceased to amaze him.

"So what we're gonna do, Bobby?"

"You," Bobby puts a glass of scotch on his desk and points a finger at Dean, "are going hunting. I just got a call from that idjit Garth. He found a big vamp nest in Hardin and he can't deal with it himself. So I'm sending you to help, he probably has no idea what to do."

"You're sending us on a _hunt_?"

Bobby looks offended. He folds his arms over his chest and glares at Dean in a way that would make John Winchester proud. It also makes Dean feel a bit awkward.

"People around are still dying, Dean. Monsters didn't take a break because you have problems with your boyfriend, princess."

"And you?" asks Sam before Dean gets a chance to come up with a snarky comeback. So maybe cutting his brother off is not the most diplomatic way, but it is effective and Bobby loses himself in listing all the books he's going to read. The 'boyfriend' comment is soon forgotten.

"I'll look for omens, check the weather patterns as well, daily," assures Bobby as he ushers them outside. "We gotta be able to locate our pal Cas in order to track his movement." Bobby glances at Dean expectantly, as if waiting for Dean's reply. When it doesn't come, Bobby's stiff posture relaxes and he even cracks a small smile. "Behave, boys. And look out for each other."

Dean and Sam exchange amused looks. Bobby acting like a mother hen; who knew?

"Sure thing, Bobby," says Sam and goes to the car he's driven the day before. The car is even uglier in the daylight and it pains Dean to betray his baby like that. But at least she's here, he muses as he notices familiar shape near Bobby's barn. Someone — Bobby, probably, and that's why he's so tired — went back and brought his car, made sure it was available for Dean to repair it.

"She looked worse after the accident with Dad," says Sam and starts the engine.

"Yeah."

But it will take him at least two weeks to fix her anyway.

It took them almost half a day to get to Hardin, Montana and Dean was happy to blame his brother for that. First of all, he chose the car. Granted, he probably just got the first car that had a working engine — desperately trying to catch up with your brother and friend makes choosing a vehicle much more difficult — but he still chose a freaking _Toyota_. A thirty-years-old _Toyota Tercel_ and that is one of the ugliest and least comfortable cars Dean's ever seen and had displeasure of travelling in. Secondly, Sam just doesn't know when to quit. Dean thinks it's a residual and maybe even subconscious law-student thing that prevents Sam from driving over speed limits at the most inconvenient times. Not to mention that a part of Route 212 is currently out of order and Sam, being the good boy he is, went with the planned detour instead of looking for a better and faster way himself, just like Dean would have done if he weren't so grossed out by the mere idea of driving this monster.

"Three hours, Sammy! We could have been here three hours ago if you only listened to me!"

Sam rolls his eyes so swiftly and gracefully that Dean thinks he must have specially trained muscles in his sockets, because no one should be able to roll their eyes that way. This or he wants to carve eye-rolling into an Olympic sport. Dean resists the urge to roll his own eyes and puts his duffle bag on the counter. They're staying in a reasonably looking motel near the town border, with a nicely kept lawn and all. Dean drums his fingers on the counter, waiting for someone to check them in, when something furry leans on his leg. He tenses and looks down into the brown eyes of a dog. The dog is quite big, with chocolate brown curly fur and a flat muzzle, like it'd hit a wall when it was younger. It licks its nose and starts puffing, still looking right at Dean. Dean's not sure if the look in the dog's eyes indicates that it found a new object of adoration or dinner.

"Sookie!"

A short lady appears behind the counter and shakes her head with resignation. She bends a little, which is not easy judging by both her age and weight, and whistles, trying to get the dog's attention. The monster detaches itself from Dean's legs and pads towards the old lady, who lovingly scratches it behind ears. Dean swears the dog smiles at that. When the lady is satisfied with the amount of affection the dog received, she pats it on the top of its head and smoothly tells it to go and check on "daddy". The dog woofs and starts running towards the back doors, which is kind of funny, considering that the floor is tiled and slippery. Dean snorts and turns to wink at Sam; his brother, however, is looking at the dog with his classical 'aww' face.

"Cutey, isn't she?" chirps the old lady when she notices that Sam is following the dog with his gaze. "Always so happy to see new people. Constantly thinks someone will come and take her home and love her, poor thing."

"She's not yours, then?" asks Sam and Dean wants to moan. Super, a simple act of checking in is slowly turning out into a dog lovers' convention.

"No, no, my husband and I found her chained to a tree last year. I don't know how long she's been there; the darling was so hungry and scared!"

After that Dean stops paying attention. He still hears old lady's sweet voice and pet names she has for the dog and Sam's occasional 'awfuls', 'adorables' and 'that's barbaric'.

"Our son works at the local hospital, so he doesn't help much, it's just me and Willie and the doggie," sighs the old lady. "But look, boys, I'm torturing you with my boring life and you must be exhausted!"

"We're not," says Sam the exact same time when Dean grumbles "you have no idea". Old lady smiles widely, presenting two rows of pearly white teeth, impressive for someone her age. She checks them into a room she calls 'the best they have' and gives Sam the keys. Dean notices that the keychain has the shape of a dog's paw and he almost regrets ever setting a foot in this place. Almost, because the room really is nice — no crazy wallpaper with puppies or anything like that — and he really is tired.

Dean throws his duffel bag on the bed closest to the door and excuses himself to the bathroom. Sam just shrugs his shoulders and spreads himself on the remaining bed. Fascinating, but the bed is big enough not only to fit Sam's overgrown body but also to ensure that he's actually comfortable. So maybe this motel wasn't such a bad idea after all, creepy owners aside. Besides, Dean muses as he turns the bathroom light on, the interior design kind of reminds him of Bobby's house — the guest bedroom upstairs, to be exact — which is the closest equivalent of a home they have. The solid panelling and old-looking copper taps look, for the lack of a better word, _homey_. Assuming of course that someone would tidy up Bobby's house or at least remove all the spare books lying around the guest bedroom, making it inaccessible.

"What a nice woman," comments Sam when Dean exits the bathroom. He's lying on the bed full-clothed and expresses no intention of getting up in the nearest future. Whatever, his choice. Dean graciously decides to let him be.

"I don't know. I got a creepy vibe from her."

Sam snorts.

"That's because of the dog. You have some serious issues, man."

"I don't exactly have a good experience with dogs."

Sam lifts his head at that and an apologetic-sort of sad look appears on his face. Dean ignores it in favor of putting the duffel bag aside and throwing himself on the bed. The mattress is surprisingly soft and Dean can't help but groan. After a week of sleeping either on Bobby's really bad couch or his equally hard floor, this is Heaven, hands down.

"'night, Dean," murmurs Sam somewhere on Dean's left and Dean hears him shifting to his side. Soon snoring fills the otherwise quiet room. Dean tucks an arm under his head and closes his eyes.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of blood and bloodied hands — delicate and familiar-looking, but he can't exactly pinpoint where he's seen them before — and broken pleas delivered in a soft whisper, but when a piercing scream wakes him up, he remembers nothing.

"You wanna tell me what that was about?"

Dean shoots Sam a half-concerned, half-pissed off look from the driver's seat of the monstrous Toyota. Sam just swallows in a way that makes his Adam's apple positively _jump_ and rests his head on the side window. He blatantly refuses to look at Dean.

"Sam!"

"Lower the volume, Dean, my head is pounding," Sam grumbles finally and starts rubbing his temple. He looks exhausted; even the wonderful coffee — brought with a mouthwatering slice of blueberry pie — provided at the motel by the old lady, who didn't seem so creepy in the daylight, didn't manage to make him looks less zombie-like.

"You gotta talk to me, man," insists Dean and Sam makes a face. "Sammy, we all know how the 'not talking about it' crap worked out for me."

"Fine," snaps Sam and _finally_ looks at Dean. Dean counts it as a small victory even if Sam is now annoyed. But as soon as it appeared, the irritation vanishes and leaves a haunted Sam with tired eyes. "Just… not yet, okay? I still got to work few things out on my own."

"But…"

"Then we'll talk", states Sam and Dean knows this is the end of this particular conversation. At least for now.

"Where do we meet this Garth guy?" asks Dean and Sam visibly relaxes at the change of subject. Sam fumbles with a small map he borrowed from the motel owner and points something on it with a satisfied expression.

"Community Center Bowl at 1st Street West. Bobby said he'll be waiting outside."

Dean turns into North Terry Avenue and parks near grocery store. He pointedly ignores Sam's raised eyebrows — his brother _chose_ this car, so he wouldn't understand Dean's mortification over being associated with this monster by other hunters. Or other people in general. 'Cause that's just not him. It's as not him as fruit salad and still water. They get out of the car and Dean shuts the driver's door with so much force that the side window seems in danger of dropping out.

"I hate this thing," decides Dean for the twelfth time this morning, "I can't wait till we get back to Bobby's and I get my baby working." He looks at Sam. "You just couldn't pick something less ugly, could you?"

"I was in a hurry, Dean," answers Sam as they turn into 1st West and pass a couple of giggling girls who look up at Sam with interest. "I needed to catch up with you guys _in Kansas_ as soon as possible, so no, I didn't waste time choosing the car I liked. I just took the first one that was available."

Sam moves past the girls without any indication that he's noticed their flirty and inviting looks. Dean watches them as they turn around and resume their stroll down the street. One of the girls puts a lock of black hair behind her ear the way Lisa did and the memory makes Dean stop looking. Sam is few feet before him, never noticed that his brother stopped to appreciate the local beauties. He seems only interested in getting to that Garth dude, if he's thinking about the case at all. Maybe his mind is on something different entirely.

From what Bobby told them about Garth, Dean assumed that they'd meet a Richie-type hunter, flamboyant, loud and too stupid to work in this business. He imagined short, balding man in his early forties, dressed in a ridiculous red sweatpants made of nylon and a T-shirt from Disneyland or something. In his mind, Garth was also missing two teeth, but Dean can't explain what prompted that image. It's just… the way Bobby talked about Garth, it made Dean think of him as a loser and maybe even a nutjob, the kind of guy who needs advice 24/7 and who needs saving more times than not. Dean's mind immediately went to Richie, except of course that Garth wouldn't have the "I kinda like you" factor.

The man waiting outside Community Center Bowl is indeed a short Latino, but that's where the similarities between him and Dean's image of Garth end. He's got a full head of slightly curly black hair and is dressed like a rock star merged with a businessman. All black, from head to toe, fitting designer jeans, cotton shirt that looks like it's permanently ironed and an expensive-looking leather jacket. Garth's black shoes are so clean that they _shine_ in the sunlight. He's wearing sunglasses like a royal douche from one of the sixty versions of CSI and doesn't look amused. To be honest, he seems plain bored.

"Ah, the cavalry arrived," says Garth in a deep, rough voice that reminds Dean of Castiel. It stops Dean dead in his tracks, so Sam is the first one to reach Garth.

"Nice to meet you too, I'm Sam and that's my brother Dean."

"I know."

Sam and Garth exchange a handshake and Dean only nods. It doesn't bother Garth.

"So… what do we have?" asks Sam when the silence between the three of them becomes unbearable. Garth reaches to the pocket of his jeans and takes out a simple small notebook. He licks through few pages before handing it to Sam to read.

"Bunch of animals with bite-marks and a suspicious lack of blood; mostly goats, but there were few cows reported too. And one human victim."

"Only one?" Dean is stunned. So maybe this Garth isn't so smart after all — with vampires there are usually disappearances, dead, bloodless bodies, lots of them. Not _one_. How on Earth can you assume that you're dealing with vampires after _one_ body?

"Yep," confirms Garth and that's it, the guy's clearly a moron. "She's still at the hospital, but they're going to discharge her soon."

"And she's alive?" asks Dean and Garth nods. No wonder Bobby has trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that this guy is still kicking. "Then why do you think it's a vampire? She could have been jumped by a black dog outside a bar for all we know."

"You think I'm dumb?" Garth looks at Dean questioningly and Dean has a hard time not answering "yes". "I interviewed her. She was bitten in a locked hospital room. Four days ago, when she came to have her appendix removed."

Dean blinks. Oh, that's something new.

"So you're saying that whatever was attacking the animals went on to feed on humans?" It's Sam's turn to ask. Dean's glad; at least Sam doesn't seem to have a problem with their new hunter pal.

"It looks like so. Maybe it got bored, maybe it wanted excitement in its diet."

"But still," Dean interrupts, "why do we assume it's a vampire? Could be any other thing, like—"

"Because the bite-mark on Ashley Morgan's neck is clearly a trace of vampire teeth," Garth cuts him off. "And really, boys, I didn't ask Robert for help, he offered. But if you're going to stand here and be skeptical, I have no use of you. You either trust my judgment call or we part ways."

Dean has no intention of trusting Garth and his lack of knowledge, but he does want to take part in a normal hunt for a change. Something that doesn't involve angels or demons or grand plans or the end of the world or any kind of crap like that. An old school hunt that's about ganking an evil monster and saving people. He needs it before they head back to Bobby's and have to come face to face with all the fucked up shit they've left there and yep, Dean doesn't want to think about it now.

"So okay, part A of the hunting trip is done; we know what we're dealing with. Vampires. What now?"

Garth smiles a self-satisfied smile and Dean feel the urge to punch him square in the face. There's something off about this guy, something so sure of himself that usually means he's gonna get himself killed. Dean hated that kind of hunters.

"We know that whoever that vampire is, it has an easy access to the hospital. We also know that it recently developed a taste in human blood. I'm basing my assumptions not only on the attack on Ashley Morgan," adds Garth quickly when both Dean and Sam look at him with doubt, "but also on the fact that blood bags are going missing."

"Blood bags?"

"Type A-negative, I checked. So." Garth rubs his hands with excitement. "From what I learned, the hospital has already asked for more. Someone from the blood bank is going to come today with the new supply. Therefore we have to wait at the hospital and see who's going to come out running with the bags. Then we catch it and kill it. Bam! And the job is done."

"So your brilliant idea involves waiting here?"

"If you have a better one, I'm all ears."

That shuts Dean up. For about half an hour.

With Garth being friendly with the hospital's director and Sam being the only one who could stand the sight of their Toyota, Dean was assigned with checking out the lobby of the hospital. It was boring as hell, but at least provided Dean with interesting view. Apparently, a cheerleading squad from the local high school had a pretty bad coach vs. car accident and now all those girls were stuck in the lobby with him. At some point a doctor named Morrigan Wyle asked Dean if he was injured too, to which Dean answered that he only had a really bad migraine so he could wait. Doctor Wyle smiled sympathetically at him and walked away, leaving Dean with a feeling that he knows his name from somewhere. But then one of the cheerleaders fainted in front of him and Dean got to be the hero who caught her. Adored, looked-up-at, first-crush-ever kind of a hero. But all in all, it was a pretty boring day.

Dean yawns. He gets off the uncomfortable plastic bench in order to stretch his legs and get a can of Cola, when he sees a familiar, big shape making its way through the hospital door. The lady-owner of the motel he and Sam are staying in comes in, supporting a rather pale and sick looking man with one arm. Vending machine forgotten, Dean — in an act of unusual chivalry — walks up to the old lady and offers his help with… whoever it is that she's brought here. The lady's face lits up like a Christmas tree, all bright smile and shining eyes, which are really blue, Dean notes abstent-mindedly.

"Oh, thank you, sweetie," says the lady in a sweet voice and starts looking around, trying to locate a doctor. "My husband is not feeling well today, I'm afraid."

Dean blinks and glares at the man whom he's currently holding upright. Judging from his appearance, he can't be more than thirty five-years-old, smooth face with no trace of stubble and cropped hair. He's not very lucid at the moment, but he doesn't seem like the type who likes to get married to older ladies. Plus, _this_ particular old lady is neither rich nor hot for her age. So either she has amazing personality or this guy has one crazy kink, Dean decides.

"Debra," says doctor Wyle when he spots the old lady. He comes up to them, a flashlight in his hand, and checks old lady's — _Debra's_ — husband's pupils. He must be happy with whatever he got from this, because he smiles. "Not feeling well today again, are we?"

"It's the second time this week!" Debra puts her hands up in a resigned gesture.

"Don't worry, ma'am, I know just the thing that might help him. Thankfully, we're fully stocked again."

Doctor Wyle pats Dean on the back and thanks him for helping. He then gestures at the nearest nurse and orders her to get Willie into a wheelchair and to take him upstairs, to his office. As the nurse passes by him, Dean hears her telling Willie that he's right in time for dinner. Dean's stomach makes an interested grumble at that, reminding Dean that he hasn't eaten anything today, not since Debra's delicious blueberry pie in the morning. Dean looks around. There are parents of few cheerleaders waiting in the lobby — besides that, the hospital looks peaceful. He glances at the front door. At their way here, he spotted a café not far from the hospital. Surely nothing would happen if he went outside for a moment, to grab a sandwich and a cup of coffee, right?

A heartbeat and a decision later, Dean takes out his cellphone. He hits number 1 on speed dial.

"Sam? Going to grab something to eat, meet me in the café opposite the hospital in five, okay?"

He hangs up before he hears Sam's reply. A t the far end of the lobby Debra and doctor Wyle are deep in a conversation — they mention Ashley, Dean's pretty sure of that — but Dean can't help but think that they're shooting worried glances at him from time to time. He nods the old lady as he moves to the front door and she smiles.

Sam's waiting for him outside the café when Dean gets there. He's sitting at one of the benches, holding a cup of fresh coffee in an outstretched hand and Dean takes it. He just hopes that Sam's not in the mood for pranks and there isn't any cinnamon or something equally girly inside. Thankfully, it's pure black.

"I've been sitting outside the police station for the last couple of hours and guess what. Nothing happened," says Sam in a bored voice. "Zero, zip, nada, no one came, nothing happened, there wasn't even a badly parked car. For the whole day."

"My day wasn't better." Dean tries not to sound amused. He fails. "Of course unless you're totally into hot cheerleaders waiting for a rescue, that is."

Sam has the decency to look hurt and annoyed at the same time. Royal bitchface #3 forms on his face.

"_That_ is what you were doing all day? Staring at a bunch of half-naked girls?"

"No! Not only. I also saw our dog loving motel owner." Sam gives a little, interested 'huh'. "She came with her husband. And I gotta tell you, man, she must be _really_ good in bed to keep a guy his age at her side." Dean makes a disgusted face. "And _God_, I didn't need to visualize that."

"Wait." Sam puts his empty cup of coffee on the bench. "He's younger than her?"

"A lot younger," admits Dean. "A thirty year gap at least."

"And he's sick, right? That's why they were at the hospital?"

"She said that it's the second time this week." Dean closes his eyes. "There's something epic that I'm missing here, right?"

Sam moves on the bench so that when Dean opens his eyes again, Sam's sitting much closer to him, staring right into his eyes in a very… And no, not going there.

"Dean, you remember what she said after we checked in. She said that she lives with her husband and that their son is working at the hospital. _Their_ son, Dean. Think about it. If her husband is so much younger, how come they have a son who's after medical school and internship _and_ residency already?"

"Not really possible."

"Yeah, exactly."

"So what, you think that our motel owner and her husband are vampires? And their son…"

"Who works at the hospital so he can supply them with blood bags and who might even forge medical reports and such? Yes!"

Dean hits his thigh.

"That's stupid, Sam. The lady's _old_!"

"So maybe she was turned later than the rest of them. Point is," Sam decides, getting up, "we have to go to that hospital, now. Before something happens."

"Why do you think something will?"

Sam rolls his eyes and grabs Dean's T-shirt, hails him off the bench.

"Because something already did, Dean, remember? Ashley Morgan? The bitten girl?"

"Yeah, I heard doctor Wyle and Debra… Oh, crap." Sam looks at him quizzically and Dean rubs his chin. "Wyle, I knew I saw that name somewhere." He reaches into his pocket and takes out their motel room key. "'Wyles' Home Ranch', the motel we're staying at."

Sam bites the inside of his cheek and Dean knows that he's just trying not to say 'bravo, Sherlock'. Dean starts running towards the hospital and fuck, he should have noticed it sooner. That nice doctor who kept asking about Dean's migraine, fucking vampire and shit, from what Dean understood doctor Wyle was on call today so he was the one responsible for all those cute cheerleaders. Who knows, maybe half of them are dead now.

And most of all fuck that idiot Garth, who's too stupid to live if he didn't connect all the dots.

"Sorry, doctor Wyle's office, which floor?" asks Dean when they reach the lobby. The nurse raises her eyebrows at the sight of two panting man, but gives them the instructions anyway. Second floor, second door in the right corridor. Room 102. After Dean hits the elevator's 'down' button four times, they decide to take the stairs. It will be much faster than waiting for this piece of junk to come down from the third floor.

"You got a plan, Dean?" asks Sam on the first middle-floor. "And do we have anything besides one syringe of dead man's blood?"

"We do have a one syringe?"

That surprising and surprisingly good news, Dean decides. Sam stops for a moment and takes a long, thin syringe out of his jacket's pocket. Dean whistles.

"After all these years you finally decided to take on Bobby's prime advice."

"Better safe than sorry," Sam grins.

They stop running when they get to the second floor. No use in looking suspicious in a hospital, a nurse might alarm the security, especially if doctor Wyle is universally liked. Dean notices that Sam hides the syringe in his sleeve. Smart move, having it on sight is not safe either. Sam points the right door and they knock. A loud 'not now' comes from the inside; Dean cracks a smile at the long-legged nurse who passes them by at the corridor. When he's sure that she's out of the eye- and earshot, he opens the door and quickly gets inside. Sam takes out the syringe and prepares for an attack.

They're greeted by the sight of a thirty-something Willie sitting on a folded plastic chair in front of Morrigan Wyle's desk, with a half-empty blood bag in his hands. Debra the motel owner sits on another chair by the window, with her hand over her mouth, frozen and still, like a statue of a gasping woman. Morrigan Wyle crouches by Wille's side, but his sharp, green eyes are focused on Sam and the syringe in his hand. None of the vampires make a move.

"Mum," says Morrigan Wyle finally, while still looking at Sam, "I told you that moving here was a bad idea. A hunter was bound to find us one day."

Dean and Sam exchange confused looks and Debra puts her hand down. She keeps her mouth slightly open though, like a fish freshly out of water. A loud slurp indicates that Willie continues to drink the blood. It takes a moment for Dean to notice that the blood bag has a straw in it.

No one is still moving.

"This is getting awkward," Dean decides finally and it seems to break a spell. Morrigan Wyle's shoulders slump, Debra closes her mouth and Sam lowers the hand with syringe in it. Only Willie is still oblivious to the whole situation.

"Could you _please_ put that syringe away, it makes my mother uncomfortable," asks Morrigan Wyle, gesturing somewhere in Sam's general direction. Sam looks at Dean and Dean shakes his head 'no'. "Okay, _fine_, but just for your information, we're not doing anything."

"You're _vampires_," says Sam. Debra suddenly gets up, clearly indignant about Sam's comment.

"I beg your pardon! I'm from Ohio!"

Sam raises his head a little in an openly 'so what?' gesture. It's a challenge that Debra doesn't recognize. That's strange.

"Okay, stop for a second, just stop." Morrigan Wyle gets up and puts his hands up so that both Sam and Dean see them clearly. He's not armed and he doesn't strike them as dangerous. He moves to stand in front of his still angry mother. "I know what you're thinking, that we're a bunch of psycho killers… or something, but if this is about Ashley then I _swear_, it was a one-time thing. My dad…," Morrigan Wyle glances at Willie, "is sometimes difficult to reason with. Four days ago I left him alone in my office, I went to get a bag, his favourite one, and he was gone when I returned. We didn't mean for Ashley to get hurt, that was an accident, now my mum is always keeping an eye on him. We don't leave him alone anymore so that he won't be able to bite anyone else. And besides," Morrigan Wyle lowers his hands and puts them on his hips in a somewhat defensive move, "you can't really judge us, that was just one girl and she's _fine_. I'm a _doctor_, more than that, I'm _her_ doctor so I'd know if she wasn't fine. Which she is."

"Just one girl? You seriously want us to believe that?" asks Dean incredulously.

"Yeah, because that's the truth." Morrigan Wyle takes a step closer to Dean. Sam raises the hand in which he's holding the syringe up, causing Morrigan to stop and put his hands up again. "We're relatively new here, okay? I'm a doctor, I help people. My parents are good people, even if dad is still a bit confused after this whole… _Eve_ thing or whatever."

That gets Dean's attention.

"What did you say?"

Morrigan shrugs his shoulders.

"Dad's been under influence of someone named Eve for some time lately. I must say, it did cause _me_ some headaches, but nothing as bad as dad. Normally he's…," he risks another look at Willie, "well, he's charming and great, but he's been acting more like a vampire for the past few months. Scared my mum."

"But it didn't affect her?"

Morrigan looks at Dean as he was an idiot.

"She told you she's not a vampire. And she isn't. One hundred percent human, just like you."

"So what, your vampire nest consist of you, Mr. Vampire Medicine Man, and drunkie here?" Dean doesn't quite believe it. And judging by Sam's defensive posture, he doesn't either. But there's a concentrated look on his brother's face, as if he was trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle and was missing an important piece.

Morrigan Wyle shifts uncomfortably and that's what it takes for Sam to get an epiphany.

"You're a dhampir."

Both Dean and Morrigan Wyle look at Sam, the former clearly confused, the latter with something akin to disbelief and intrigue.

"Yes," confirms Morrigan at the same time when Dean asks "What the hell is a dhampir?".

"Well, folklore of some Slavic countries describes a child of a vampire father and a human mother. A dhampir. It's supposed to possess powers similar to vampires — enhanced senses, strength — but it doesn't suffer from bloodlust. And it ages normally, like a human. A half-vampire."

"What, like in _Twilight_?"

"No, definitely not like in _Twilight_," Morrigan cuts in before Sam can reply. "Mainly because this is real life, not badly written fiction for desperate teenage girls; you don't _die_ in order to become a vampire."

Dean looks questioningly at Sam, who nods.

"This is bullshit," says Dean.

"Not necessarily, Dean. And you did wonder why there weren't any victims in this town. From what I gather, doctor Wyle," Sam gestures at Morrigan, "uses his position in the hospital to get blood bags for his… father, so that he wouldn't have to look for fresh, human blood."

"And I don't use any myself," adds Morrigan. "I much prefer steaks."

"This is still insane. Sammy, support me, this is insane!"

Sam makes a face.

"I'd rather see it as an improvement of Lenore's idea."

The notion of Lenore and the memory of her nest drinking cow blood reminds Dean of something.

"And what of all those dead goats, huh? They just magically happen to die of bloodloss?"

"Oh, that's nothing, sweetie," says Debra, who's been suspiciously quiet till now. "Just the chupacabra. That's the main reason why we moved here."

"Chupacabra?"

"Yes," Debra nods and smiles sweetly. "We needed a safe place for Willie and I thought that if we located somewhere where a blood-drinking creature already lived, we'd be safer. No one would suspect us, but then Willie had this incident earlier this week and that must have alarmed a hunter… And now you're here." She sighs. "We really tried and I thought that after this Eve thing ended, everything would go back to normal. And it did, but then it got worse again. And it's not like its safe nowadays anyway."

Sam furrowed his brows.

"What do you mean?"

"It's coming," replies a raspy voice that startles everyone in the office. Willie drops his empty blood bag and turns his head so that he's looking exactly at Dean. Dean shivers. Willie's eyes have the look of a madman. "We can feel it. We need to run but we can't and it's coming."

"He keeps saying that." Debra crouches in front of Willie and takes his hand in hers. But his eyes are still locked with Dean's. "I don't know what he means."

Dean takes a step closer to Willie.

"What's coming?"

Suddenly, Willie jumps out of the chair. Debra shrieks and falls on her butt; Willie gets into Dean's personal space in a blink of an eye. He grabs Dean's wrist with one hand and the back of Dean's head with the other and leans into to Dean to whisper into his ear. As quickly as he moved from his chair, Willie comes back to sit in it, once again lost in his own world. He mumbles something under his breath, but nothing's coherent.

"You okay?" asks Morrigan Wyle worriedly, and he also sounds a bit scared, as he reaches for Dean's wrist to check for his pulse. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry for dad, but you're okay, right?"

"Fine," answers Dean a touch shakily.

"So… you're going to kill us?"

"No!" assures Sam. "It's all a big mistake, due to an… idiot… colleague of ours. We'll tell him that it's a chupacabra and that he's stupid, no one's gonna bother you again." He grins a fake grin and both Morrigan and Debra buy it. "Just… take care of your, uh, dad. And we… have to go. Now."

Sam nudges at Dean's shoulder and when Dean doesn't move, Sam smiles again, grabs a fistful of Dean's shirt and drags him out of Morrigan Wyle's office. Outside, they both lean against the hospital's wall and take a deep breath.

"That was interesting," Sam laughs under his breath. "It gives a whole new meaning to that 'vampires mate for life' thing. Dean?"

Dean shakes his head and gestures the elevator. Sam disposes of the unused syringe and they leave the hospital. Neither says a word till they get to their hideous car.

"I'll call Garth and tell him that he was wrong," offers Sam when they're safe inside. They still have to go back to the motel to grab their things and then they'll leave this crazy town. Dean decides they're not gonna pay for the room — considering the fact that they just left a vampire alive and lied about him to another hunter, he figures that old Debra won't mind. Not to mention that they didn't use the room that much.

"What did he say to you?" asks Sam when they're back at the highway and are heading to Bobby's. Dean feels his brother's eyes on him and he knows that Sam's been politely waiting for the right moment to ask that question.

"It was gibberish, Sam."

"Didn't look like it, man. For a moment I might have said that it's shaken you pretty bad."

Dean rubs his eyes. He's driving, this time. Sam would obey every law and rule and Dean doesn't want to waste another four hours on a trip. At least he knows that when he's driving, they'll reach Bobby's within ten hours from every freaking place in the USA.

"Dean, talk to me! You told me to share today morning, and it's gotta go both ways."

"Fine," snaps Dean, "you ready to share your traumatic experiences from Hell? Why were you screaming in your sleep, Sammy? Was it Lucifer? Or Michael?"

Sam turns his head and starts staring at the empty field behind the window like it was the most fascinating view he's ever seen. Dean's preparing a funny comment to brush off the issue when Sam unexpectedly says:

"Neither, actually. It was Adam."

"Adam? You remembered _Adam_?"

"Had a glimpse of what was being done to him." Sam shifts his gaze from the field back to Dean. "Your turn."

"What? You're not gonna elaborate?"

"Nope," says Sam and clasps his hands in his lap. "Not yet, still figuring it out. Your turn, Dean. What did Willie say to you? What's coming?"

"Chaos," answers Dean. He sees from the corner of his eye that Sam looks like he was going to accuse Dean of kidding, but thinks better of it. Dean's tone of voice indicates that he's deadly serious.

"It doesn't sound good," is what Sam settles for. Dean snorts.

"No shit, Sherlock."

**TBC**


	2. Part 2 A Smudge of Blood

_A/N: __**Sgmajorshipper**__ from LJ continues to be my amazing beta (I shall bow ad profess my love for her). Comments are love, so I appreciate all the feedback._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural nor did I come up with the title, nothing is mine apart from the plot._

Part 2. A Smudge of Blood

Dean cleans his oil-dirty hands on an already greasy cloth and looks at his work with appreciation. His baby looks brand new; actually, no, she looks _better_. She is, once again, the most beautiful car Dean has ever seen.

As it turned out, getting her back into the right shape wasn't so hard after all. Sam was right; after the accident with Dad she was wrecked far worse — this time there were only dents, lots of them, in the metal, missing glass in all the windows. Finding a replacement for the damaged-beyond-straightening fender was a bit tricky — it always is with cars as old as his baby; it's not like spare parts are conveniently lying on shelves at your local shop — but Bobby was adamant about helping Dean with that. When it turned out that nowhere in his junkyard could they find the right part, Bobby started calling favors. The guy had a huge web of friends when he needed them, as it turned out. After three days spent on the phone, a guy named Jace from Texas — who, apparently, owed his continued life to Bobby's hunting skills — finally told them that he might have the solution to their problem at hand. Another four days and Dean had his fender, as original as it could be.

Fender problems aside, Dean was worried about the badly abused roof and the chassis, which suffered most from the massive demon attack. Needlessly, because _those_ were the parts that turned out relatively fine. It was the rest of it that he had problems with. But a few calls from Bobby, a fresh coat of black paint and four weeks later, the Impala was ready to get back into business and kick some ass. Which was fine by Dean, because if he had to go near Sam's Toyota again, he would cry. Or kill something. Or both.

"There, baby," whispers Dean tenderly as he strokes the hood. "We're back together and nothing's gonna do us apart now."

"Wow. I've heard marriage vows that are less romantic," snarks Sam.

His brother is leaning against a rusty pickup truck and watches Dean with a hint of amusement. Dean rolls his eyes and mouths "bitch" at him, but drops the greasy cloth and comes up to stand next to him. From this angle his baby is a true work of art. Dean smiles, Sam takes one bottle of beer from the pickup's hood and hands it over to Dean. They open their bottles and take a first swig at the same time.

"What's Bobby doing?"

"Putting more info on the freakboard," replies Sam.

Dean drinks some more. And that's it, the freakboard, as Sam has dubbed it. The clearest evidence of the fact that no, those aren't peaceful times and it's not easy living your life right now. It started innocently, like those kinds of things always do, the same way the Apocalypse and Lucifer's shenanigans didn't start until a few quiet months passed. It started with Bobby's raised eyebrows after he'd heard the story of the not-so-vampire Wyle family in Hardin, Montana. At first they didn't pay much attention to any of it — after all, weird things could happen from time to time and that definitely counted as weird. But then it got worse, and Bobby was practically bombed with unsettling information about monsters. It took Bobby three days to analyze everything and when he did, he decided that the situation right now is the exact reverse of what was happening when Eve walked the Earth. Then all the monsters were making their presence known; now it was like everyone was trying to lie as low as they could. The Wyles were the first but certainly not the last. A week after Dean and Sam came back to Sioux Falls, a friend of Bobby's, a hunter named Lucy or something like that, phoned from Boston and rendered Bobby speechless with the news of a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost renting a house together. What's more, Lucy said, was that they weren't doing _anything_ apart from killing few troublemaking vampires who made it difficult for those happy three to pretend that they're just human.

That was when Bobby decided to hit the town and came back with a corkboard he supposedly borrowed from Sheriff Mills. He scribbled a few notes both on the Wyles and the Boston-located-being-human trio and pinned it on the board. But it was still just a corkboard then.

When they were still waiting for Dean's fender, Sam found a case. A lot of people dying in a nursing house in Ohio and sure, those people were old and probably sick and dying anyway, but all those sudden death occurred during a night shift of the same nurse and that had to mean something. Dean grumbled, Bobby pushed and they went to Ohio, again in that awful Toyota of Sam's. The case was legit, it turned out, and they tracked down a banshee who was only trying to get enough money to buy a single ticket to New Zealand in order to stay there forever. And what's the best way to get said money? Sell your friggin amber tears. Or pearl, he wasn't sure. And Dean would have been ready to laugh his ass off at this story if only the banshee didn't ask if _he_ was maybe interested in buying some.

And that was weird beyond their measurement. When they came back from Ohio, Bobby had two new cases on the corkboard, one of which was a skinwalker trying to live in the sewers because, quote, "it was safer there". The banshee jeweler joined the board.

"It's like every monster everywhere is trying to get into witness protection," said Bobby and Sam commented:

"It's like a freakshow gone wrong."

To further support that idea, four days after the comment — which gave name to their infamous corkboard — they landed on a hunt in a quiet town of Pipestone, Minnesota, where a local representative died a horrible death after declaring that he supported the idea of turning the town's biggest playground into a mall. Looking for clues around the town, Dean found a hexbag in the guy's office and Sam found Amy Stewart, a one-time high school friend, and her eleven-year-old son Thomas (seeing the two of them reminded Dean of Lisa and Ben _so much_ that he physically couldn't stand being near them). Then Dean's investigation and Sam's little trip down the memory lane collided with a bang, when Amy Stewart — cute and witty Wiccan, blond secretary and part-time fan of witchcraft — became their prime suspect. Sam charged himself with the task of finding out the truth, most likely as a penance for letting sweet little Amy Stewart run away from home with a bunch of crazy occultists all by herself; or so Dean thought. After spending three consecutive days in Pipestone, Sam found out that Amy Stewart had nothing to do with _this_ particular spell, as the town was a home to another witch, Miss Mildred Longfellow, an elderly Democrat, social activist and the most beloved nanny around. Also, as it turned out, a homicidal campaigner for making Pipestone the friendliest town for young couples with children.

Dean missed those easy times when witches were only interested in personal gain, not services to the community.

"Dude," confessed Sam on their way back to South Dakota, after they said their goodbyes to Amy Stewart for what they hoped was forever. "Killing Mary Poppins was one of the freakiest things we've ever done."

Freaky things. Freakshow. Freakboard. Dean finishes his beer and puts the empty bottle on the ground.

"What's new?"

Sam sighs.

"A Laney Robbins from Hawaii claims that she found a drunk ghoul at the local mausoleum. The ghoul supposedly told her that the world is lacking balance and that it's affecting everyone."

"And then what?" presses Dean. "It ate her?"

"Nope." Sam takes a last swig of his beer. "I grabbed her gun and blew its brains out."

Dean's pretty sure he's gaping and staring.

"Swear to God, Dean, that's what the girl told Bobby. The monster killed itself."

Sam picks up Dean's bottle from the ground and gestures his head towards the house. It's a clear suggestion of going inside. Dean lets his brother go first, steals a last, loving glance at his beautiful baby and follows inside. Bobby is standing in front of the freakboard with his hands clasped behind his head. He looks brooding.

"Garth just tipped me," he says and glances at the discarded phone. "There's a hurricane alert."

"So what? Nothing out of ordinary, it is a hurricane season." Sam frowns at looks questioningly at the freakboard, as if expecting the board to give him answers at any moment.

"That's not the weird part." Bobby throws him a notebook. "The weird part is that the alert is for central Utah."

"_What_?"

"What you heard. Central Utah is about to be hit with Katrina's little sister."

Sam gives the notebook to Dean and comes up to stand by Bobby. He scratches his head, deep in thought.

"It doesn't make any sense," he declares and Bobby and Dean snort in unison. "It's almost like the laws of nature, laws of physics… just went to Hell. As if someone lost control over the world."

He straightens suddenly and exchanges glances with Bobby. Then they both turn their heads towards Dean, who blatantly refuses to meet their gaze. It's not like he doesn't know what they're thinking. He knows, because the same thought is banging the inside of his head right now. Control over the world, there's only one creature that could tip something like that, right?

"I'm going to bed," announces Dean loudly. Sam makes a face that says 'bitch, please, get it together'.

"Dean, we will have to talk about this, you know?" he says after his brother. "And we'll have to do it soon, because this is slowly going too far!"

"Fine, Sammy, but after I get a full night's sleep. In case you haven't noticed, I've been working on our _real_ car for the last couple of days."

Dean can feel Sam observing his back, almost piercing a hole in his shirt with the intense of his gaze. He tries not to be bothered. He lays down on the battered couch, puts a folded blanket under his head and closes his eyes.

He also tries not to think about lack of balance in the world and chaos and shit like that, because that always leads to Cas. And he definitely does not want to think about Cas, because thinking about Cas makes him revisit their every meeting during the last year, it makes him realize just how many little signs went unnoticed. And fuck this shit, he's a hunter, he should have seen that something was terribly off; he should have picked up that miserable vibe. But he didn't and that kind of makes him think about how much he had to screw everything up in order to make _an angel of the Lord_ think that opening Purgatory was the best course of action.

_In retrospect_, Dean thinks as he turns to the side, _a tiny bit of Cas' blame could be, technically, put on me_.

~***~

Dean's not exactly sure what made him wake up — there wasn't any sound or movement that might have stirred him awake — but right now he's glad he did. When he opens his eyes it's was dark, Sam and Bobby aren't anywhere nearby, and a familiar shape is standing behind Bobby's desk. Dean almost leaps off the couch, but in a sudden flash of brilliance on his part, decides against it. First of all, it's not smart to make it obvious that he isn't asleep anymore. Secondly, he doesn't even have a gun nearby. He should just stay still and hope that maybe; _maybe_ he'll be lucky tonight…

"Hello, Dean."

… or maybe he won't. Dean sits up. No point in pretending to be asleep, not when the… _he_ knows he's not. Dean gets up and slowly goes to the desk. Quick look through the window tells him that it's night — and that's curious, it was only early afternoon when he went to sleep. Dean takes another step closer to Bobby's desk and stops dead in his tracks. From this point the moonlight falls into the study at the right angle for Dean to actually _see_ Castiel. And that's… well, that's not a pretty sight. From this spot Dean can see the helpless expression, the sad — almost _dead_ — look in the eyes and shit, that's blood trickling from the corner of Cas' mouth. He looks wrecked in more ways than one and seriously, what on Earth can do _that_ to a deity?

"Cas, what the hell?" asks Dean and for a moment he forgets everything that happened between them, concern overtaking every rational thought.

Cas only lowers his gaze to one of Bobby's books, one that he's currently bleeding all over, and leaves Dean staring at the top of his head. His voice is so small and freaking _broken_ that Dean almost misses what he's saying.

"Please."

Dean outstretches his arm, and maybe it's an invitation or maybe he just wants to touch Cas' hair and see that he's real, but then someone grabs his shoulder and turns him around and—

He falls off the couch.

"…the fuck?"

Dean starts rubbing his throbbing head and looks up, looks right at his brother. Sam is wearing a tightly controlled expression on his face, so duh, obviously something must have happened. Something bad, all things considered.

"Bobby just got a call from Tamara Sorkin. He's got news."

Dean rubs his eyes and yawns. That earns him a hit in the head.

"And you had to wake me for that news? Jeez, Sam, couldn't it have waited until morning?"

"Bobby says it's important," replies Sam and kicks Dean's legs for good measure. Dean grumbles a few curses. "Get your ass up and meet us in the kitchen."

Dean slowly raises from the dusty floor of Bobby's living room. Apart from his head — which absorbed most of the impact of his fall from the couch — his left elbow and hip _hurt_. Dean looks out through the window. It's sunset; the rays of sunshine are painting golden and red patterns on the cars in the junkyard. Red. He glances quickly at Bobby's desk — there isn't even a smallest trace of blood on any of the books. Friggin dreams.

In the kitchen Sam and Bobby are sitting at the little dining table, close together, both sporting utterly miserable and defeated expressions on their faces. There's a bottle of Jack Daniels standing between them, but it's unopened, Dean notices. Almost as if they were too crushed to even pour a drink. Dean decides to do it for them. He takes three glasses from the cupboard and puts them on the table, reaches for the bottle, opens it and pours the amber liquid for everyone. Pushes the first glass towards Bobby, who takes it and downs everything in one go, without as much as a 'thank you'. Sam fails to notice his glass, occupied by watching some abstract point on Bobby's wall.

"So," starts Dean, "what's the big news?"

Bobby takes a deep breath and reaches for the bottle. He doesn't bother with pouring whiskey to the glass this time.

"Don't assume that it's easy on any of us," says Bobby and avoids looking at Dean. "It ain't, boy. We all care for the guy, hell; I came to think about him as my third idjit, excellent addition to you two. But it has gone too far, and, truth be told, we're probably the only ones who can do something about it."

It's enough for Dean to know who this conversation is about and to predict where it will go. He takes a seat opposite Bobby. The old man risks a glance at him; when he sees that Dean's not exactly blazing with fury or whatever he assumed Dean would do, he relaxes visibly. He even fills their glasses with whiskey again.

"What happened?"

Bobby empties his glass and taps it on the edge of the table.

"I got a call from Tamara Sorkin. We've met 'er few years back, remember?" Dean does remember, so he nods. Bobby continues. "She was meeting with two other hunters today, but they never showed up. She decided to pay them a visit at the motel they were staying in and… Well, they aren't exactly _useful_ anymore."

"You mean they're dead." Sam makes a little, hysterical noise in the back of his throat. "But how do we know that… that _Cas_ had anything to do with it?"

"Tamara said that one of the guys had his eyes burnt out and the other…" Bobby scratches his chin. "Dean, the other was just a wet crimson stain on the wall when she came got there. You know. Snap your fingers and boom."

"And that's not even the funniest part," says Sam suddenly. He sounds as if he was in shock. Maybe he is. "The funniest part is who died." When Dean doesn't ask 'who?', Sam carries on. "It's Ray and Walt, Dean. Ray and Walt who'd sent us on a little roadtrip to Heaven."

"What? You're kidding, right?"

"Wish we were, boy."

Bobby pours the rest of whiskey into his glass and empties the bottle, but doesn't have the heart to drink. He just stares at the alcohol. Sam drums his fingers on the table and waits for Dean to process the new information. It's unsettling. Because so far the big giant _nothing_ that's been happening — monster freakshow aside — could have been neatly put into the 'I don't give a damn' category. Now it's gotten personal.

"So, what now? What exactly are we gonna do?"

"What we do best," answers Sam. "Hunt."

"Wow, Sam, that's brilliant. A+." Dean's voice is dripping with sarcasm. "Jesus, I feel like I'm talking to soulless you again."

"Maybe you are," says Sam acidly. Dean pales and Sam rubs a hand across his eyes. "I mean… he's a part of me now, Dean. And maybe, just maybe, he's right. What else can we do? It's not like we know a way to defuse Cas, I even doubt that we _could_ find a way. And if he's responsible for everything that's happening—"

"Which we don't know," Dean cuts in.

"But we have to assume that he is! Jesus, Dean, that hurricane can kill hundreds of people!"

And that's the Sam Dean knows. Always the concerned one, always trying to save everyone. The ghost of a soulless dick disappears.

"We do care, Dean." Sam's voice becomes quieter and softer. "And I know that I'll never understand whatever it was that you and Cas had, but he was my friend too. He's getting dangerous. I wish I could tell you that it's only the billions of evil monster souls that are messing with his mind, but he broke my Wall when he was still himself. We can't pretend that he's _Cas_. I wish we could and I do hope we can find a way to save him, but we can't pretend, Dean. People's lives are at risk."

Dean takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. He starts balancing on the chair's back legs and stares at the ceiling.

"Okay," he says. "So how do we kill a god?"

"You got me." Bobby gets up and moves to the living room. "But I know where we could start looking for clues." Dean raises his brows. "Ellie's house," Bobby answers. "She kept a lot of handwritten notes. Considering she's a Purgatory native, something's gotta be there."

"So we're gonna visit you ex's house, Bobby?"

Bobby shrugs.

"That's always a start."

~***~

The trip to San Francisco wasn't fruitless. Almost two months after Eleanor Visyak's disappearance (and death, though apparently her SFU colleagues didn't know about that detail) her classes were temporarily reassigned to other professors for an unknown period of time. Her office was closed, but a police tape wasn't attached to the door, so getting in wasn't a problem. Same with her impressive mansion. Sam whistled loudly when the Impala pulled up in front of the grand entrance, followed by Bobby's pick-up. Dean realized that Sam was the only one who'd never seen the house before.

Once inside, they split up. Dean offered to go through the collection of weapons in the basement — there were a lot of things none of them ever heard of, useful against monsters long dead or forgotten. Dean reasoned that Doctor Visyak wouldn't have much use of her treasures anymore; he suggested taking as many things as they could without looking suspicious and with Bobby's blessing decided to put his plan into motion. As it turned out, Ellie Visyak's collection consisted of much more than a dragon sword; if not for the tagging, Dean would never know what he's picking up. There were Sumerian knives supposedly capable of killing a ghost, magical pieces of wood from basically every mythology ever created, gold bracelets that could bind djinns and nymphs to a human's will. There was also some cool looking St. George's armour, but it was too big to carry out.

Bobby and Sam stayed upstairs in a giant library. Dean was never good with books, he didn't know what was useful and what was not — it was only reasonable to leave two nerds to worry about ancient and medieval manuscripts or whatever it was that Bobby's friend had been collecting. Bobby was all for taking the important stuff for further use, so after inspecting the ground floor and the basement of Ellie Visyak's mansion, they already had a pick-up full of things they were going to take back to Sioux Falls. Which left them with the first floor, the woman's bedroom and office and the search for her private notes and journals. This time they split differently; Sam basically manhandled Dean to the office, leaving Bobby with the bedroom. And while the office — where Doctor Visyak sometimes met with her students — lacked any interesting papers, Bobby emerged from the bedroom with four heavy volumes and slightly puffy eyes.

They put the books in Impala's trunk and left for Sioux Falls before anyone from the university noticed that someone broke into their missing lecturer's house.

As it turned out, the stuff from the library didn't do much, except for contributing to Bobby's own collection of weird documents. It was those four volumes, giant books filled with Ellie Visyak's sharp handwriting, that held important information which could shed light on their current problems.

"Four enormous books about every friggin thing in and about Purgatory and she didn't even bother with making a table of friggin contents." Dean closes volume two of _Encyclopaedia di Purgatorio_, as Sam named the blasted thing, with so much force that a delicate, silk-y cover rips at the edge. Bobby shoots him a murderous glare. "How are we supposed to find any valuable info in here?"

"We _read_ it," answers Bobby and delicately turns the page.

"Well, I don't understand half of this shit." Dean gestures vaguely at the books. "What language are they written in, anyway?"

"English," snaps Bobby. Dean throws his hands up in surrender.

For the last week they've been stuck at Bobby's, trying to go through every book owned by Ellie Visyak, hopeful that maybe their solution lies somewhere within them. Most of the time, Sam and Bobby have a lot of fun; Sam even started taking _notes_, the smartass college boy. But today, apparently, they've run out of anything to eat and Sam offered to go shopping. Which, unfortunately, left Bobby without a discussion partner and Dean had to man up and face his reading duties. He's been doing it for two hours now and he's slowly going mad.

"Jesus Christ, I'd _kill_ for a hunt," Dean moans, hiding his face in his hands.

"I might have something just for you," says Sam cheerfully as he walks into the kitchen and puts groceries on the table. He takes a broadsheet paper from one of the bags and throws it at Dean. "A mass suicide in Onawa."

"Onawa?" Bobby abandons Volume One and looks up at Sam. "That's like a two-hour drive from here."

"Probably that's why it hit the headlines even here," murmurs Sam, unpacking the groceries. "Anyway, according to the article, twenty people, who've never met each other, gathered together in an abandoned warehouse and killed themselves over the course of less that thirty minutes. Single clear gunshot wound, right in the temple." Sam taps his forehead. "According to the police, all the bullets were fired from the same gun, which was curiously missing from the crime scene."

The promise of a puzzle to solve, etched to Sam's story, sparks Dean's interest.

"So maybe it wasn't a mass suicide after all," he theorizes. "They could have been shot. Or maybe better," Dean raises his voice slightly when Sam seems ready to interrupt his thought process, "they might have been forced to shoot themselves and then whatever compelled them, took the weapon and left."

"That's what I was thinking," admits Sam. "I think it's worth checking out; might be important."

Dean nods, but an expression of pained regret soon forms on his face. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly.

"It might be," he agrees, "and I think we should check out if it's something supernatural." He looks at their _Encyclopaedia_ and sighs. "If only we didn't have so much reading…"

Bobby slams the book shut.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Dean, just go! I don't have much use for you two idjits only whining around," grumbles Bobby, then gets up and goes to the kitchen to inspect what Sam bought. Dean strains his neck to see if there's a pie somewhere among vegetables and bread. There isn't. "Contrary to what you might think, your bitching ain't helping me read. So go and get your things, drive to Onawa, kill that thing and come back here, 'cause those books ain't gonna read themselves."

Dean springs from his chair and looks around the room, trying to locate his duffel bag. He quickly throws and extra shirt inside, takes the dirty ones out — he hopes that Bobby will finally take pity on them and will do the laundry — and winks at Sam.

"Ready to go, Sammy. Meet me by the car in five."

After few days of non-stop research, it feels amazing to finally go outside and breathe air that does't smell like burnt chicken or old socks. Dean pats the hood of his car affectionately, his mind already on the road, _finally_ away from the obscure texts that even Bobby has trouble understanding, which, Dean knows, by the way, no matter how much effort Bobby puts into trying to hide his growing confusion.

"Thanks for the rescue," says Dean when Sam gets to the car and throws his stuff onto the backseat.

"No problem. I had a feeling that you'd start climbing the walls if you were to spend another day reading that." Dean nods. "I'm not judging, man," continues Sam, "it's really hard. I know that it's written in English and that I should understand it, but I just don't. There are these weird names, plus the book is self-referencing, so it complicates everything. It's almost as if we don't have all the information necessary to read it."

"Maybe it's written in a code," suggest Dean. He starts the engine and leaves Bobby's yard. He needs to get on the South Minnesota Avenue, it's the fastest way to Onawa.

"Yeah, maybe," agrees Sam and after that they settle for a comfortable silence.

Journey to Onawa takes them a half an hour less than Sam's Google Maps engine predicted, all thanks to Dean's amazing driving skills. Sam spends the entire journey on the phone, talking to police officers. He keeps pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean notices.

"So," starts Sam, "the families of fifteen victims already took care of the bodies, the remaining five are still in the local morgue. The crime scene is still closed; the police in Onawa apparently hope for a CSI-like miracle that will suddenly tell them what happened."

"I guess we'll be FBI agents then." Dean reaches to the glove compartment, opens it and takes out two badges. "Agents Young and Tyler, not to be suspicious."

Sam takes one of the badges while Dean pulls up in front of a decently looking motel. They're about to get out when Sam starts rubbing his forehead. Dean sits immediately.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"What?" Sam looks up at him. "Of course I'm fine, just tired."

"Really? It isn't…"

"No," denies Sam instantly. "I don't know," he adds after a heartbeat. "Maybe."

"Sam, you gotta tell me these things," insists Dean and Sam raises his brows. "I know you don't believe me, but it is dangerous for you."

"Actually, I don't think so," says Sam and he sounds so convinced that it catches Dean's breath. "I mean, I haven't _really_ been there that long. Cas…" Sam shoots Dean a concerned look and clears his throat. "I got my body busted after a day. Two tops."

"That's still almost eight months in Hell, Sam. Not to mention that your soul was left there for over a year. In a Cage with Michael and Lucifer."

"And that's the point, Dean," stresses Sam. "You don't actually comprehend what the Cage is. It's not only a prison, but it's a prison _made_ for an angel. They're basically like humans there. Feelings, pain and all. And I think I can call myself lucky, because at first Lucifer and Michael were interested only in beating the crap out of each other. I think you all operate under the assumption that the angels would target me. And yes, they did, but they also took it out on each other and it left _them_ bleeding and suffering. They usually left us alone." Sam laughs, but it's bitter and dark around the edges. "Of course it was still Hell, flames and eternal damnation, but all things considered, I think I had it easier than you."

Although Sam doesn't say it out loud, Dean hears the sentiment behind his brother's last words: Sam didn't have to deal with Alastair. Dean swallows bile that suddenly formed in his throat.

"And you remember all of that?"

"No," answers Sam quickly. "Not everything, just bits and pieces. It's heat and fire, mostly. A few heart-to-hearts with Lucifer, but it's fragmentary at best. Also a high-pitched, piercing sound, but I guess that was Lucifer and Michael arguing." He tries to crack a smile. "And I remember Adam."

Dean lowers his gaze. He knows the next question before Sam asks it, he's been expecting it since Sam admitted him that his first nightmare was about the kid.

"Why did you leave him there?"

"I didn't have a choice," replies Dean, slowly and carefully choosing his words. "Death gave me a choice, you or Adam, but not both. I had to choose, Sammy. And trust me, I'm not happy and I don't feel good about leaving him there," Dean's voice breaks a little, "but you're my _brother_."

Sam is silent after that. Dean's thankful that his brother didn't decide to push the subject or, God forbid, remind him that Adam is their brother too. Dean knows that, of course he does; but Adam will never be a brother to him the way Sam is and given a choice, Dean will always pick Sam over him.

"We should get some sleep," suggests Sam after he checks them in. "After all those sleepless nights at Bobby's, we look bad."

"Maybe you look like a zombie; I look dashing," says Dean and mission accomplished, because it finally makes Sam laugh for real. "But since I'm an awesome brother, I'll agree to your girly whim. After all I don't want to deny you your beauty sleep."

Sam laughs all the way to their room.

~***~

Dean's sense of smell wakes up long before his sight or even ability to think straight does. He sniffs once and twice and when his brain finally starts kicking, he manages to connect the wonderful smell of a freshly made coffee with the general direction of the door. He opens one eye and sees a cup of steaming coffee being placed on his bedside table.

"Thanks, Sam," he murmurs, but it's impossible to tell if Sam understood him through the thick layer of duvet.

Sam sits on his bed and observes Dean's fight with yawning and coffee — black and strong, no sugar, the manly way in which Dean prefers to take his — with an amused twinkle in his eyes. When Dean finishes drinking, Sam throws a new toothbrush at him and manages to hit him in the nose.

"Couldn't sleep any longer," Sam explains, "so I went out and did a little shopping."

"Wow, Sam, that's practically room service."

Dean retreats to the bathroom to clean himself up a bit, puts on a clean shirt and grabs his fake badge, laying in the duffel bag by his bed. He gestures towards the door and Sam immediately gets up, and they leave the room.

"Let's hit the police department first," says Sam when they're sitting in car. "In a town this small a mass suicide is likely the biggest incident since ever. The crime scene is probably guarded and I don't think that trying to break in is a good idea."

"Fine, the police department it is."

The Onawa Police Department is located in a small building on 909 7th Street, only a couple of blocks from their motel. It reminds Dean of the building where Victor Henriksen once held them, with the way it's so small and crammed and has a waiting room with a few chairs. There's a girl watering the plants and Dean winks at her, then shows her his FBI badge and asks where he can find the Chief. She blushes a deep red — just like Nancy would, Dean thinks — and shows them to the proper room.

The door with a nametag "Jerry Adler, Chief of Police" opens the moment the cute secretary wants to knock on it. She jumps as if burnt and puts a hand over her heart, with a look on her face that says 'I'm so having a heart attack'. An already-grey man in what Dean assumes is his late forties emerges from the office, chatting to a high-heeled, formally-dressed woman in her early thirties. She's short with an oval face, surrounded by wavy brown hair. She has big, doe eyes that dart over to Dean and Sam the moment she notices them. They're blue, the bluest Dean's ever seen, almost, and very intense.

Dean thinks she's beautiful.

"Sir, these are agents Young and Tyler from the FBI," the secretary introduces them. Chief of Police takes a long look at both of them, but doesn't question their presence, which means no real FBI agent has been here yet.

"Finally," says Adler, "I was beginning to wonder whether any of you guys might find our situation concerning." The woman beside him clears her throat. "Ah, of course. Gentlemen, this is Gail Kelley, an insurance agent."

The woman — Gail Kelley — exchanges a polite handshake with them. Sam nods at her and Dean works his personal magic with a charming smile. Gail isn't impressed, judging by her expression.

"I represent several families," she says in a strange accent and Dean's _sure_ he already heard it somewhere. "I'm glad to know that the FBI is finally taking an interest in this case."

"We'll do our best to find out exactly what happened," assures Sam and the insurance rep smiles. She nods at the agents and leaves, swaying from side to side and tapping her high heels on the tiled floor.

"Is there any way I could help you, gentlemen?" asks Chief Adler.

"We'd like to inspect the crime scene if that's not a problem," answers Sam, discreetly punching Dean, who's still watching the door where the temping silhouette of Gail Kelley disappeared.

The chief offers to take them to the warehouse personally and Dean and Sam end up following a police car to the town borders. As they get out of the Impala, Adler is already waiting for them by the police tape. He takes out the keys and leads the brothers inside, to the center of the warehouse, where the outlines of twenty bodies are drawn on the floor. He gestures around.

"This is the place. We were tipped by Teddy, a local drunk. He says he heard several gunshots, though, not all of them, of course. When we got here all the bodies were still warm. We think it might have been a cult thing." Adler points at a circular sign painted white several meters away. "From what we know those people never met each other, but it's possible that they were part of the same occultist group on the Internet."

"And what about the gun?" asks Sam.

Adler scratches his head.

"We think that it might have been carried out by a prospective victim. As of now, our report states that one person bailed out. He or she took the gun to cover their deed."

Adler's phone rings. He excuses himself for a moment and steps aside to answer. Sam puts his hands in his pockets and turns to Dean.

"Is it me or does this warehouse smells strange in a completely familiar way?"

"You're right," admits Dean, "this place _reeks_ of sulfur."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," says Adler. "We have a bit of a situation at the local Community Centre."

"Not a problem, officer", assures him Dean. "My partner and I are just going to inspect the place a little bit; we'll find an exit on our own."

Adler looks relieved and, without as much as a look at Dean and Sam, leaves the warehouse. Few minutes later they hear his car leave the driveway. With Adler out of the picture, Dean drops to his knees and traces a finger on the ground while Sam goes to check out the sign.

"I've never seen one like this," he states out loud. "It looks like a Greek cross in the middle of three circles, and there's something written in the spaces between the circles…" Sam squints his eyes and cocks his head to the left. "But no, I can't make anything out of it."

He reaches to his pocket and takes out a cell phone. Dean hears clicks, indicating that Sam documented the sign for Bobby for further study.

"You were right," Dean says as he stands up. "There's a thin layer of sulfur on the floor, all over the place were the bodies were."

"You think the demons did it?"

"It's possible. We have demonic activity, twenty bodies and a missing gun. Maybe it was an execution. Maybe it was a statement of power or something. Or maybe the bastards are just bored."

"We should hit the morgue," suggests Sam.

Since they don't have any clues or the faintest idea of what to do next, Dean agrees. They drive to the morgue, where a chirpy forensic pathology fellow tells them that three more bodies were taken by families by now, which leaves Dean and Sam with only two remaining victims.

"That gave us a steaming pile of nothing," complains Dean, letting Sam drive them from the morgue back to the motel. "Apart from the gunshot wound, which we were already aware of, there wasn't a damn thing on them. That was a waste of time and we still don't know what the hell happened."

"Maybe it was just a suicide," murmurs Sam, sounding fed up. "Maybe there's nothing supernatural about it."

"Yeah, and that… sigil or whatever is just a part of the warehouse's décor," snaps Dean. He slams the Impala's door shut so hard that the windows rattle. It's not Sam's fault, of course; he's just pissed off in general, because there's no way it isn't supernatural-related, but at the same time there's no proof that it is. Not strong proof, anyway.

Dean opens the door of their motel room and notices that the light in the bathroom is on. He reaches for his gun; he _knows_ he turned it off this morning, before he and Sam left the room. He walks into the room quietly, barrel raised and pointed before him. Suddenly the bathroom door opens and a woman in a close-fitting suit emerges, shaking off droplets of water from her pale hands. She beams at the sight of Sam and Dean.

"Finally," Gail Kelley says, again with that somehow-not-unfamiliar accent. "I was worried that you just gave up and decided to not return to the motel." She sits on Sam's bed and straightens the folds on her perfect suit. "And we have so much to talk about."

Dean blinks.

"Miss Kelley," he starts, then clears his throat. But he doesn't lower the gun and the girl doesn't seem to mind, if her sigh is anything to go by.

"If only I got paid every time you pointed a gun at me," she says. "And really, Dean, you don't recognize me?"

Her eyes turn red. Dean tenses, while Sam quickly gets the knife out. The woman purses her lips and crosses her arms on her chest.

"Now I feel offended," she declares and taps her high-heeled foot on the cheap floor. "Do I give off the crazy vibe? Do I _look_ like torturing puppies and killing kittens is one of my hobbies? _Really_? And I thought you knew me better by now. I only like lying naked in money."

It hits Dean like lightening, the realization of who it is exactly who is sitting on his brother's bed. He lowers his gun, much to Sam's surprise.

"Bela."

The woman — not Gail Kelley, apparently, but Bela Talbot reincarnated — smiles widely and claps her hands in appreciation.

"Ten points to the pretty boy for figuring it out." She points at Dean's bed. "I know it's impolite to order you around your own room, but we don't have much time. And we do have a lot to talk about, I wasn't joking."

Dean and Sam exchange looks. Letting your guard down around a demon isn't a smart idea, but then again this is Bela Talbot, back from Hell, and she doesn't look like she is going to try and kill them. Yet. Dean just hopes they'll be safely back at Bobby's when she decides to change her mind. As if sensing their thoughts, Bela rolls her eyes.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she promises. "I would have already if I planned to, and I haven't. I'm interested in helping you."

"Helping us," repeats Sam dubiously. "Since when do demons want to help us?"

"I'm hurt," Bela declares, putting a hand over her heart. "Besides, we might have a common interest. You're here because of the suicide, right?"

"Don't tell me," interrupts her Dean. "You were bored, those guys were nasty, and you killed them all."

Bela shakes her head.

"Oh no, they all killed themselves. I was going to tell you that you were right assuming that demons were there. To be precise, there were _twenty_ demons present at the scene."

"Twenty?" Sam decides to lower the knife. "Those people were _possessed_?" Bela nods. "They killed themselves while _possessed_?"

"Yes," she confirms. "But more than that, it was the _demons_ that killed themselves."

Dean laughs when he hears that. Sam and Bela both look at him in disapproval.

"If you really are Bela," starts Dean, "you'd know that there's only one gun that can kill a demon."

"Oh yes, I know," tells him Bela cheerfully. She reaches for her white leather bag, which is standing on the floor near Sam's bedside table and takes out the Colt. "You mean this gun, right?"

Dean and Sam stare at Bela's hands with their mouths open. Bela laughs, shakes her head with amusement and lays the gun on the bed, right beside her.

"That's the Colt," Dean finally stutters. Bela nods. "But _how_."

"Did you honestly think that it was left to rot in the grass after you dropped it in Carthage? Please. Demons were trying to get their hands on it, all of them. Especially Ellsworth," she adds as an afterthought. "Anyway, I had some trouble getting it, but now that it was already used by those idiots, it's all mine." She takes the gun and hands it to Dean. "And I give it to you. Might be useful."

Dean takes the gun, weights it in his hand, and points it at Bela. She rolls her eyes again.

"Come on. Don't you want to know _why_ those demons killed themselves? They shot themselves with the Colt. They clearly knew they weren't going to make it alive out of that warehouse. You're not curious why?"

Sam puts a hand on the Colt's barrel and lowers it down.

"You know why?" he asks.

"Of course I know." Bela moves back to sit cross-legged on Sam's bed. "Let me tell you a story, boys. It all starts with the Genesis, the uncut version. In the beginning, God the Creator, well, created the world and everything in it. But he wasn't that interested in running the thing, so he let other deities create themselves. God gave the other gods jobs to do and so they were charged with the task of maintaining balance in the world. But it turned out that when God created all the good things, he also created their polar opposites. Which means that there was an exact opposite of _Him_. It wasn't corporeal, a mere idea, but it was evil; it was pure evil. God decided that he couldn't let Evil stay permanently on Earth and so He created a separate dimension where he imprisoned the Evil. Then he called a small goddess named Eve and made her the Queen of Purgatory, the Mother of monsters.

"After that, God created angels to worship the world," Bela continues after a moment. "And then he created humans who were destined to populate the Earth. But He was still concerned with the Evil, because He knew that even if the Evil's influence is only passed through Eve, one day it might free itself from the prison and it might gain a body. And then it will finally become the opposite of God — the Chaos, the Anticreator and it will undo… everything."

Bela falls silent. Sam observes her, transfixed. Dean clears his throat.

"That," he declares, "is bullshit. What, an Armageddon story from demon Sunday school?"

"So maybe it does sound a bit like a fairy tale," Bela raises her voice, "but a lot of demons believe it! Those twenty killed themselves because they were certain that the Anticreator is now among us and that he will destroy the world. That's what most demons are thinking, Dean, and they're scared. There are, of course the few who are willing to worship him as their new god, a better version of what Lucifer was supposed to be. A friend of yours is a supporter of that idea, I hear. Astaroth."

"Never heard of her," dismisses her Dean.

"I know, because you only refer to her as 'Meg'", replies Bela. "She's the number one fangirl. But she's one of a few. Like I said, most of the demons are trying to find a way to kill themselves before it's too late. But there are also those who believe our boss has a plan and who are loyal to him. We're willing to fight."

"Why?"

"Because we like this world, Sam." Bela looks out the motel window. "_I_ like this world and I don't want to see the Sower turn it into a pile of stardust."

"The Sower?," asks Sam.

"That's what he's called by the oldest demons," explains Bela. "The Sower of the Wind. The one who will undo the creation."

"Let's assume we believe you," says Dean finally. "Why are you here? Truly, Bela, why are you here?"

"Because you needed to know what you're up against," answers Bela in a hushed voice. "Because you needed to know that there is help waiting for you, if you only ask for it. I know that you have a really bad track record when it comes to dealing with demons, but this time is different. This time we face the same enemy." She gets up. "I need to go now. But I'm a Crossroads demon — I'm told that I have a natural talent for the job — so it shouldn't be difficult for you to contact me. I'm willing to help any way I can."

Dean blinks and she's gone. He looks around the room, but she's disappeared. It figures; she's a demon, she doesn't have to use the door anymore. Dean does some quick math in his head — Bela died before him and it was almost four years since… Oh, damn. It meant nearly five hundred years in Hell for her. She looked good, for that amount of time. Sane, almost human and still _Bela_.

"So," Dean turns towards Sam, "what do you think?"

Sam takes out his phone and presses number 2 on speed dial.

"I think we should tip Bobby." He waits a few moments for the call to be answered. "Bobby? It's me, I think we've got something. No, not about the suicide, about our _Encyclopaedia_. Check if a word 'Sower' is mentioned anywhere. 'Sower', with a capital 's'. I know I sound cryptic, we'll explain when we get back. Okay. See you"

Sam hangs up.

"We should head back to Sioux Falls," he suggests.

Dean, not at all surprisingly, agrees.

~***~

"Wherever you got that 'Sower' thing, boys, it surely helped a lot," is Bobby's greeting when Sam pushes the front door open and the brothers get inside, soaked to the bone and shivering with cold, thanks to a freaking blizzard in the middle of the hot-for-now _July_.

Sam starts shedding clothes the moment they step into the house, trying to avoid Bobby's accusation of leaking on his wooden floor. Dean, however, heads to the kitchen, where he puts on the water for hot tea, possibly with a bit stronger addition. He feels half frozen, his fingers especially, so navigation around the room is not the easiest task. He hears an irritated grunt behind his back before Bobby takes the water boiler from him.

"Go and get changed, will ya?"

Dean does. He leaves the kitchen and joins Sam in the living room, where his brother is hunting for his clothes in the big pile of dirty laundry they've left next to the couch. Apparently, Bobby didn't grant them the mercy of doing laundry while they were gone.

"There's something seriously wrong with the weather," decides Sam, pouting when he realizes that until he washes his clothes himself, he'll either stay in the wet ones or will have to borrow a robe from Bobby.

"No need to tell me, I was outside too."

Dean finds a giant, semi-clean shirt under his old jeans and throws it at Sam. Dean settles for a Metallica T-shirt that's so worn out the caption is missing all vowels and both 'ls'. Bobby brings two cups of steaming tea mixed with brandy and puts them on the desk. He then sits behind it and clasps his hands behind his head.

"We're kind of screwed, boys," he announces.

Dean and Sam exchange looks before quickly grabbing their cups. They busy themselves with drinking the tea so that Bobby can't make them read or touch anything. Neither of them have forgotten the dragons' book and its unusual writing material.

"I guess you found something on the Sower." Sam looks between a thick book laid on the desk and Bobby.

"As a matter of fact, I did." Bobby taps the book in front of him. "It's mentioned in every one of Ellie's books, but this is the only one that gives details."

"So what is it?," demands Dean. "A demon? A monster? Eve's estranged husband?"

"None. And all."

"A little less cryptic, Bobby? That would be nice."

Bobby sighs and pushes the book towards the boys.

"It took me awhile to understand it, but Ellie referred to the darkness trapped inside Purgatory as 'the Sower'," starts explaining Bobby. "It's the essence of all that is evil, manifested in thousands upon thousands monster souls. It feeds on those souls. It doesn't have a body, it's not corporeal, it possesses the idjit who's stupid enough to try and open the Purgatory."

"So, what, we can exorcise it, right?"

Bobby shakes his head.

"It's not a thing, Dean. It's… it's more like an _idea_ of evil. It attaches itself to the person who opened the door and exploits their flaws, their dark side, so to say. It essentially turns that person into the King of All That Is Evil."

"It's perfect," comments Sam. Dean squints his eyes; if looks could kill, Sam would be lying dead on the floor. He had to notice Dean's murderous glare, because he shifts uncomfortably. "According to Plato, there's nothing more perfect than an idea. Because it's not material, it defies logic, human terms. So an idea of evil is worse than any evil thing we've ever faced."

Bobby nods approvingly. Dean closes his eyes and counts to ten, slowly.

"So how do we stop it?"

Sam gives an exasperated noise, halfway into an annoyed grunt, as if he couldn't believe someone as stupid as Dean managed to live to his age.

"Didn't you hear a word Bobby and I said?" Sam inquires. "It's not a monster, Dean. It's _an idea_ of a monster, it's _an idea_ of evil, of everything between a mosquito and a demon. You _can't_ fight an idea. It's forever. Always been, always will be. It's… truly immortal," he finishes in a flat voice.

Sam looks like the whole concept just dawned on him, right in that moment. It's a damn miserable and gut-wrenching sight.

"Come on, Sam," Dean tries to sound more optimistic than he feels, if only for the sake of lifting his little brother's spirits. "We thought the same thing about Lucifer, the same thing about Eve. There's _always_ a way. The only problem is to find it."

"According to this," Bobby points at the _Encyclopaedia_, "there's no stopping the Sower."

"No offence, Bobby, but I'm not going to give up on finding a way just because your girlfriend says there's no way. She also thought she was safe and then she _died_. That kind of proves that she can be wrong."

Bobby shuts the book close, gets off the chair and stalks out of the room. Sam gives him a disbelieving look, the kind that silently communicates 'you've hurt his feelings'. So okay, maybe calling the late doctor Bobby's girlfriend and then reminding everyone of the 'late' part wasn't Dean's brightest idea of the day, but he's just so tired of everyone always acting like it's the end of the world. Even if it is — and judging by the shitty weather outside, it might well be — they've already stopped a few of those. And it means something if _he_ is the one suddenly thinking about having a little faith in themselves.

"The amount of tactlessness you just provided makes me wonder how we are even related," says Sam and he leaves the room too, going after their offended father-figure.

~***~

There's no trace of snow in the park. The sun is shining, providing warmth and light; people are strolling down the graveled alleys, some are seeking shadowed benches to sit on and simply relax. Lovers, elders, young parents — they all enjoy the beautiful weather of a perfect summer day, the one that happens only once in awhile in the middle of July. There are children playing on a playground several feet away, their laughter echoes through the bark, bringing smile to everyone's faces. The grass is thick and green, so very soft under their hands, a wonderful bedding for a tired wanderer who only lies on the ground and watches the cloudless sky.

Dean takes a deep breath of the lily-smelling air and soaks up in the tranquility and merriment of the moment.

"Such a wonderful day," says the person next to him.

Dean turns his head to the right and looks at Castiel's content features.

"Yes, it is," he confirms quietly. "So different from the one during which I went to sleep."

"You liked this park," states Castiel and moves his hands to put them under his head. He looks at the sky, where a couple of birds fly above them. "When we were here on Halloween. Our bench is over there."

"I remember." They remain silent for few minutes. Then Dean carries on. "It's not real, right? And you're not really here."

Castiel closes his eyes. Dean sees more than hears his sigh, the slow rise of his chest accompanied by a sad expression on his face.

"We wouldn't be lying on the grass if I truly were here, would we?" he asks. "I wouldn't let us."

"I suppose not." Dean turns on his side and props his head on his hand. "Everything is getting even more fucked up than it was before, Cas. When even demons are starting to freak out and warn us, that's gotta mean something."

"Yes, it does," admits Cas. He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Dean. "Why won't you save me?"

"I'm trying," says Dean even though he knows that's not true. So far he's been avoiding all Cas-related topics like a plague. And that's not helping him come up with a way to save his friend. Dean looks at Cas' wistful expression, then his gaze travels lower. He notices something on the trenchcoat. He reaches out to touch it, a stain that wasn't there the last time he saw Castiel. "Cas, what…"

It's wet. It's wet and crimson, and it's slowly and steadily getting bigger. Dean raises to his knees to take a proper look at Cas, who takes his hands out from under his head and lies flat on the grass.

"Jesus, Cas", mutters Dean. There's a stab wound on Castiel's abdomen, gaping and bleeding profusely. That and the way Cas is spread out on the grass, with his right leg slightly bent, it all makes up for a picture Dean knows by heart, one he's seen a few times too many. His hand moves to Cas' shoulder and grips it tight. "Cas, what happened to you?"

"Dean," Cas whispers and locks his eyes with Dean's. "Please."

Dean starts awake, panting.

"Hello, Dean."

The voice carries from the kitchen. Dean shoots a look at Sam, sleeping soundly on the floor next to him, gets up and pads to the adjoining room. As he expected, a familiar figure is leaning by the kitchen cabinet, on the right side of the cooker, just by the fridge, a pose perfectly mirroring a similar one, from the same kitchen, from over four years ago.

"Castiel," says Dean as a greeting. "Not here to perch on my shoulder, I suppose."

Castiel laughs quietly.

"I came to ask about my… ah, offer," he says smoothly and it chills Dean, the way this Castiel's voice is nothing like the rough tone which Cas used; this one is softer and so confident and it's so _wrong_ to hear it. "I was wondering whether you thought about it."

"Yes," replies Dean. "I thought about it yesterday, when I was brushing my teeth. And the answer is still no. And you know what?" Feeling braver, Dean takes a step closer. "You can kill me right now, because it's always going to be 'no'. I'll never bow."

Castiel laughs again, a lot louder this time. Dean stills, waiting for Sam to emerge from the living room. Nothing happens, though; the way Castiel doesn't seem to be bothered by the prospect of facing Sam or Bobby suggests that he has something to do with their deep, undisturbed sleep.

"But you will, Dean," Castiel says, with so much self-confidence that it makes Dean's teeth hurt. Cas was never this sure of himself. "After all, I am changing the world for the better. I'm reshaping it to fit _your_ dreams." He tilts his head to the side, but not in a Cas-like confused manner. It's more of a 'how to phrase it to make it simple enough for you to understand' type of a gesture. "You have no reason to loathe me. I'm not the God who allowed the Apocalypse to begin. I'm not the God who let your friends die. And I'm not the God who let your brother fall into the Cage."

"Why are you here?" spits Dean. "If you're not here to kill me, why did you come?"

A smug expression settles on Castiel's face.

"I came here to show you that I can," he explains swiftly. "I needed you to know that if I ever decide to end you, I will be able. I'm capable of finding you wherever you go, Dean. You can't hide from me and you can't stop me."

He vanishes. Only after he's gone Dean releases a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding. He strides quickly to the living room, crouches next to Sam and shakes his brother's arm.

"Sam," Dean calls, shaking him roughly. "Sammy, wake up, now. _Sam_."

"God, _Dean_," Sam moans as he shoves away Dean's hand. "Are you aware that it's the middle of the night?"

"Sam, this is important," Dean insists. Something in his voice must have told Sam to take him seriously for a change, because his brother turns to his side instantly and looks at him with concern.

"Dean, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Dean smiles grimly.

"Worse," he decides. "A god."

Sam is up in no time and goes upstairs to wake up Bobby. Dean waits on the library's floor; when Sam comes back, tugging a yawning and still irritated Bobby with him, Dean relays the whole kitchen talk to them. Sam seems quite shaken by the fact that not only Castiel stopped by but he also made him sleep through it like a baby. Bobby, on the other hand, seems both unamused and unmoved.

"I gotta tell you," he says when Dean ends his tale, "for once I agree with the guy."

"What?" ask Dean and Sam in unison. Bobby snorts at their synch.

"He's right about being able to find us," Bobby explains. "This is serious, boys. He's a baddie unlike any other we've faced. And you know why? Because he _knows_ us. Intimately. He knows our routines, our weaknesses, Hell, he even knows about most of our hiding spots. He just _knows_ and he doesn't need the omniscience to do so."

"You know what scares _me_ the most?" asks Dean, interrupting whatever it was that Sam was trying to say. "Those dreams."

"They're just dreams, Dean," assures him Sam.

"Yeah, and how do you know? You had your…" Dean waves his hand at Sam's general direction, "psychic, weirdo dreams."

"Yeah, and they were coming true," reminds him Sam a touch impatiently. "They were realistic. I doubt that dreaming about winding up in a park we've visited _years_ ago is going to come true in the nearest foreseeable future. Not to mention the whole stabbed thing." Sam rubs his forehead. "They're just dreams, Dean. Dreams of a conflicted person who misses their friend. But still just regular dreams."

Dean resists the urge to punch his doubting-Thomas of a brother and excuses himself to the kitchen under the pretence of preparing coffee for everyone. If only there was someone not as biased as Sam that he could talk to. He wishes, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that Pamela was still alive — she was cool and always ready to listen. Shit, he could even use the number to that psychic from Lawrence, Missouri. But no, he lost it with his cell during the accident with Dad all those years ago. And he didn't know any more psychics; he couldn't ask Bobby for a number to one of his friends, there was no one who had any understanding of confusing dreams and who could lend him a hand…

Or maybe…

Dean sucks in a breath and quickly looks around. Sam and Bobby are hunched over Visyak's books again and are paying exactly no attention to him. Dean stealthily tip-toes to his leather jacket which he dropped by the front door when they entered Bobby's house the day before, and takes out his mobile. It's a huge leap of faith, thinking that the number is active or used by the same person or even that said person will answer the call. But Dean's out of ideas now, clutching to every potential offer of help he might get and this is his best shot. He will never get a better person than that. Dean scrolls down the list of contacts, chooses the right number and presses 'call'. There are three long signals, four, five…

_"Becks, honey. Told you. Wait till morning. You'll get on a nice plane, Dad and Stewie will pick you up and I—"_

"Chuck?"

There's a dead silence on the other side of the call, followed by rustling of what Dean assumes is a sheet, some cursing, click of a turned on light — probably done so in order to see the caller ID — and deep breathing.

_"Dean?"_ asks Chuck Shurley in a small voice. _"Wha… Why, but how…"_

"Nice to hear you too, Chuck," jokes Dean.

_"I didn't know you still had that number."_ Chuck sounds a bit more relaxed. He's back again to the familiar friendly tone. But gone is the drunken stutter. _"I thought you deleted it."_

"I didn't," admits Dean. "Always figured it'd be nice to be able to keep in touch with a prophet."

_"Why are you calling, Dean? And…"_ More rustling. _"At four in the morning?"_

"I… I wanted to ask about your dreams."

_"I don't have them anymore,"_ Chuck rushes with assuring. He sounds stressed all of the sudden. _"After I got to see Sam's jump live, it stopped. No more dreams, no more visions. I stopped writing too; thirty five books, ending with the end of the Apocalypse-that-wasn't. It seems fitting, don't you think?"_

"It's not about anything you've seen," offers Dean. Chuck listens. "I wanted to ask, because…. I kind of… 've been this weird dreams."

_"Weird how?"_

Prompted by Chuck, Dean recaps the most important points of the story Chuck has missed during the last year, then proceeds to tell him about his dreams. Some are recurring — like the bloodied hands and broken whispers Dean's sure he's seen and heard more times than he remembers — some are not, like the ones that are starring Castiel. Chuck listens, hums under his breath and waits for Dean to finish.

_"That is weird,"_ he agrees when Dean asks for his opinion. _"But I don't think they're prophetic."_

"Sam does neither," mutters Dean.

_"But I think it might be a message,"_ continues Chuck.

"Yeah, Chuck, but _how_?"

_"Cas is an angel, right?"_ Dean murmurs something indecipherable. _"Okay, I know, not an angel anymore, but still. First of all, he's an angel. Angels can enter people's dreams. Angels are also like celestial wavelength or something. So I'm guessing you're able to receive_ Cas._"_

"Wait, I'm lost. So you think those aren't just dreams?"

_"If I'm being honest and I'm pretty sure you'd like me to… I think it's a call for help. An unconscious one. I think it also might not be exactly from_ now…_"_

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Chuck, what the _hell_ do you mean by that?"

Dean hears a chuckle from the other side.

_"Sorry, I'm into science fiction and urban legends now,"_ Chuck laughs. Then he gets serious again. _"But as my favourite Doctor once said, time is not exactly linear, Dean. Not for angels and definitely not for gods. It's a big ball of timey-wimey stuff."_ He clears his throat. _"Like a message in the bottle, the one you don't know when will be read. Or a signal sent into space. It's out there. The question is who and when will pick it up."_

"You're just making that up to sound smart, Chuck," accuses Dean half-jokingly.

_"I'm a writer, Dean,"_ replies Chuck sweetly. _"I bullshit people for a living."_ They both laugh. _"But I didn't make_ everything _up. I truly think it's a call for help. And I'm sorry I can't help you more than that."_

"It's fine, you've been better than Sam anyway. And Chuck…" Dean pauses, not certain if the question is appropriate or not. Ah, screw it. "Did you really mistake me for Becky? I thought you guys were over. _You_ said you guys were over."

Dean can practically hear Chuck blush furiously. Jesus, that guy is hopeless.

_"We decided to try again,"_ says Chuck slowly. _"I didn't want to regret anything. After all, you only live once, right?"_ He pauses, then continues so fast that it's hard to understand what he's saying. _"Becky's coming to meet my dad and his boyfriend today. My sister is here too and I want to propose to her. Becky, I mean, not my sister. Proposing to my sister would be just wrong."_

And now fidgeting joined Dean's image of a blushing, sweating Chuck. Yep, hopeless.

"Good for you, Chuck," Dean says. "I hope…"

A faint knock on Bobby's front door cuts Dean off mid-sentence. He turns his head to the left and looks at Bobby and Sam, who just snapped their heads up too. No one makes a move.

"I'll call you later, Chuck," promises Dean, though both of them know that's probably never going to happen.

Bobby takes out a gun from of the drawers in the desk, then gets up and slowly reaches the front door. Dean watches him put his hand on the door handle, he sees as Bobby presses the handle and opens the front door. Bobby then moves so that his body blocks all the view; only his loud gasp is an indication that he found something on the porch.

"Holy mother of God," says Bobby incredulously and crouches. "Dean, hurry up with that coffee, will ya. Sam, grab something warm and get over here."

"What is it?" asks Sam, but does as he's told, and picks up a sweater from the pile of dirty clothes lying on the floor.

"More like 'who is it'," corrects him Bobby before moving a few inches to the side, making it possible for Dean to see part of the porch and a huddled figure sitting on it. "It's your brother." Bobby looks at Dean. "The other one", he clarifies as if the sight of Adam's blond-haired head wasn't enough.


End file.
